


Top of Show

by bazaar



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: F/F, Gay Panic, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Theater AU, and, because this is the theater there is ~drama~, but mostly just, rating is for ch 9
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:28:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 50,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24985339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bazaar/pseuds/bazaar
Summary: Bright Moon Playhouse puts on a show. It is (as many productions are) a complete nightmare.orCatra and Adora don't know each other yet, but the theater is a great place to get acquainted.
Relationships: Adora/Catra (She-Ra), Bow/Glimmer (She-Ra), Kyle/Lonnie/Rogelio (She-Ra), Mermista/Sea Hawk (She-Ra), Minor or Background Relationship(s), Perfuma/Scorpia (She-Ra)
Comments: 294
Kudos: 421





	1. Curtain Speech

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all, this is the theater AU absolutely no one asked for. Most of this is from years working in theaters so if y’all have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask. 
> 
> For any theater terms you might not know, you can find a link to an ongoing glossary in the end notes of each chapter—an excellent idea from my equally excellent beta and glossary organizer, osmrice. [Check out her amazing art!!](https://osmdraws.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Also, take a look at [this fantastic art](https://bazaarwords.tumblr.com/post/622289151914606592/okay-so-basically-basically-pichikui-is-the) [pichikui](https://pichikui.tumblr.com/) made to accompany this fic! [Find her on twitter too!!!](https://twitter.com/pichikui)
> 
> (basically what's up is that I am an untalented hack surrounded by Art Gods)
> 
> Enjoy!

There’s screaming coming from the production booth.

It’s not that Catra isn’t used to screaming coming from the production booth, or anywhere else in the theater for that matter. All theater people are nuts. It’s well-known, and over the years Catra has silently and begrudgingly accepted it as fact. She has to work in this nuthouse seven days a week, after all.

“ _Success!”_

The booth door opens with a _wham_ , and out barrels Entrapta. She issues one deafening shriek to the high ceiling and vaults over three rows of seats to the displaced light board.

It takes her two seconds to blind Catra.

“What the _fuck,_ Entrapta?”

“Sorry!” she calls, and the lights dim. “Trying to program these moving lights is proving much more difficult than I’d anticipated! We’ve got a universe I haven’t had to use in quite a while, but I figured—”

“ _Entrapta!”_ Catra blinks the spots out of her eyes, glowering up at where she can hear the other woman. “I don’t care. Don’t—do _not_ turn them on again.”

“Copy that! Operating on blind!” The lights go dark.

“I _am_ blind,” Catra grumbles.

Once she can see again, she hops off the edge of the stage and turns back to admire her handiwork. On her arm: four different kinds of tape. Through a belt loop: more black tie line than the entire theater will ever use. In her pockets: so many loose screws and assorted hardware. The set crew is due any minute and the stage is ready, _finally_.

“Catra."

Whatever semblance of joy she might have felt at a job well done evaporates. It’s the bane of her existence, the monster that lives under the stage, _Shadow—_

“Weaver.”

She frowns at the stage, frowns at Catra. “You’ve managed.”

 _Managed?_ Maybe she can _manage_ to strangle—“Yeah.”

“The stage has been swept? Mopped? The fly rail is clear? Where is Scorpia?”

“Everything’s done. Scorpia’s loading weight for the—”

“Everything is _almost_ done, then.”

Catra bites her cheek hard enough to draw blood. “Yes.”

It’s too snarky, apparently. Weaver leans in. “May I remind you, Catra, that it was at _Hordak’s_ discretion that you are being _allowed_ to be an assistant stage manager.”

Catra fixes her glare on the web of scars that mar the older woman’s face. They might have been cool if she hadn’t crawled out of a dungeon specifically to ruin Catra’s life. 

Catra knows why she’s here. She knows _exactly_ why the one position she’d been working for for _years_ has instead been given to the board member from the Black Lagoon. There are so many things she’d like to say, so many choice words she has for the woman who has already turned this production into a living nightmare, but she holds her tongue, if only this once.

“I’m going to help Scorpia with the weights.”

She can feel Weaver’s withering gaze follow her across the stage and up the ladder. Only once she’s out of sight, high up on the loading rail, can she relax.

“Hello fellow ASM! Fancy seeing you up here!”

The stress returns. Catra stifles a groan and the urge to bash her head against the last rung of the ladder. “Are you done?”

“Just about!” Scorpia says. “These babies should do the trick, and I’ll run on down to test it.”

When Catra turns to look, she’s holding three half-bricks under one arm like they’re stuffed animals. _Sixty fucking pounds_ , Catra thinks, _she’s inhuman._

“Good. Just—” Catra casts a sidelong glance down at the stage where Weaver is bent over, inspecting the floor. “Hurry.”

Scorpia does as she’s told, babbling on about a musical Catra has never heard of nor cares to hear about. Scorpia’s voice grows fainter as she climbs back down.

The longer Catra thinks about this particular production, the worse her mood gets. The management team, while never _stellar_ at the Bright Moon Playhouse, has been manageable in past productions. It’s usually just Catra and an out-of-town stage manager or one of the wealthy lesbians that donates to the theater. The director has almost always been a now-retired three-hundred year old man named Norwyn who reminds her of over-boiled vegetables. It’s been easy. She sweeps the floors, sets the props, and calls a couple of cues from backstage, at most.

Now, because the gods above have deemed it appropriate to shove Catra’s face into the mess she’s made, she’s stuck between _Friendly_ and _Frightening_ and she wants to throw a _Fucking Fit._ She’s been sent a _very_ passive-aggressive email with a massive to-do list as well as her duties for the show, which she’s _done_ , and yet, her direct supervisor still wants her head on a platter.

It’s probably because of last season. Catra makes a conscious decision not to think about last season.

“Mid-stage coming in!” Scorpia announces.

“Thank you!” Entrapta responds from the house, but Catra is fully aware of how little it affects Entrapta.

Once it’s clear they have a working curtain, Scorpia calls out, “Mid-stage going out!”

Catra meets her and Weaver on the stage. Scorpia is beaming. Weaver looks like she’s just smelled something awful.

“Half an hour. In the rehearsal space at eleven.”

“Aye aye captain!” says Scorpia, but Weaver is already gone. Catra moves to do the same. “Where are you headed to?”

Against her better judgement, she replies, “Break room.”

“Oh, I’ll tag along. I’ve got a few questions about the fly system!”

A _few_ is a disgusting understatement. By the time they make it to the break room, Scorpia has gone through an actual written list she produces from her pocket. Catra is so desperate to get away that even the sight of Lonnie and Rogelio at the corner table is a relief. They’re covered in sawdust and dirt from the scene shop, but they give Scorpia the distraction Catra needs to make a beeline for the fridge.

Scorpia turns her questions on them. Turns out, no one really knows how the fly system works. They haven’t had to use it in ages. That’s probably not a great thing.

Catra noses through the sad selection of fridge food, grabbing a half-eaten platter of cheeses and vegetables. Mostly vegetables.

“How old is this?” She holds it out. Lonnie shrugs.

“ _Coño, que asco,_ ” Rogelio says, grimacing at the platter. “ _Cuidado con eso._ ”

Although the vegetables are a little brown, she steels herself to consume the contents of the plate, but Scorpia is in the room. “Do you need something to eat? Catra, you should have _said_ something! I’ve—well, hah, I’ve basically got a picnic in here.” 

It shouldn’t come as a surprise that she _does_ , in fact, have a picnic’s worth of food jammed into her lunchbox. Catra wants to refuse, wants to take her old cheese platter to one of the theater’s many hidden alcoves and be dead to the world in her last half hour of freedom. What _is_ a surprise, mainly to herself, is that she takes the offer of food and her personal break room chair, and eats with other living people. It’s probably because she hasn’t eaten since yesterday. She’s a little delirious.

Scorpia is quiet by Scorpia standards as they eat, only pausing to ask how Catra’s sandwich is. _“So damn good”_ is the correct answer, but Catra settles for, “Fine.” It’s high praise, she thinks.

“I heard the lead’s coming in at one,” Lonnie says. She peels an orange, gives Rogelio half. “Adora something-or-other.”

“Oh! I can’t wait to meet her! She was in a production of _Moons Over Mystacor_ off-Broadway— _great_ show. If you haven’t seen it… well you are in for a _treat."_

Done with her (impossibly good) sandwich, Catra sits back, props her feet up on the break room table. “Bet you anything she’s going to be insufferable.” She knows actors.

“Oh, I don’t know about _that,_ ” Scorpia says. “The reviews for _Moons Over Mystacor_ were great!”

“Doesn’t mean she’s not an asshole,” is Lonnie’s very true contribution. “Besides, when was the last time we used the principal’s dressing room? She needs a whole damn room to _herself?_ Please.”

“That’s… isn’t that an Equity thing?” Scorpia asks. “I think they covered that in her contract.”

As an ASM, Catra _should_ know more about the singular union contract, but she _should_ also give a shit. Which she doesn’t. It has never, in the three years she’s worked at the Playhouse, paid to get to know an actor. They are, by and large, the most irritating, self-absorbed people she’s ever had the misfortune of working with. She feels a similar distaste for most people, but she’s gotten used to the theater’s tech crew over the years. They’re annoying in a much more tolerable way. Most days.

The break room door creaks open, and there’s Kyle, drenched to the bone.

“ _Terminaste?”_ Rogelio asks, unfazed by his boyfriend’s appearance.

“The room is clean!” Kyle announces, triumphant, right before the confidence slips off his face. “But, uh… the shower’s broken.”

“ _Seriously_ , Kyle?”

“I tried cleaning it too, but there were so many roaches and… maybe… maybe I took the shower head out trying to kill them.”

After a few more minutes of berating Kyle, which is always fun, Scorpia offers to fix his mistake and drags him out of the room. Rogelio and Lonnie finish their orange and leave together, and the break room is silent and empty again, much to Catra’s pleasure. She leans back in her broken chair, the plastic back giving way so she can recline. It is the least broken of the break room chairs, but still. Very broken.

The previous night had been long and she can feel exhaustion creeping in—she shuts her eyes. She knows herself. If she’s going to survive three weeks of rehearsals for a musical, she’s going to need every break she can get. She has to get through this production. This is her livelihood, this is her _life_ , and she has to make it. The beginning of a headache pulses at her temples.

The PA crackles to life. For a moment, she thinks she’s dreaming. It’s the nightmarish voice that will haunt every single one of Catra’s days in this godforsaken theater.

 _“This is your stage manager speaking. All crew members report to the black box. Now._ ”

* * *

_“This is your captain speaking. Welcome to Bright Moon Regional. Enjoy your stay, and thank you for flying Swift Wind.”_

As the plane slows to a stop, so begins the frantic dance of disembarking. Adora knows it well, and the fact that no one seems to care at _all_ about the ‘fasten your seatbelt’ sign—which is on display in a loud orange above everyone’s heads—is just as baffling as ever. A man trips over himself trying to escape his seat, shoving an elderly woman in the process. A baby screams, a woman starts sneezing, and the seatbelt light _dings_ off. The rest of the plane erupts into movement.

In the rush, her anxiety spikes. She tamps it down and wriggles her way out of the plane.

Bright Moon Regional is small, much smaller than the airport she’d left from. She can see a dozen or so terminals, a sandwich shop, and a sit-down coffee place. There’s a bar that, even at this early hour, has five or so balding, middle-aged patrons hunched over their drinks, and one of those pizza chains that serves what can be generously described as saucy cardboard. It’s the kind of place no one would want to have a layover.

Adora, thankfully, doesn’t need to. She powers her phone on as she makes her way to baggage claim.

Hundreds of new likes, new comments, new tags, a voicemail from her agent, and a text from her new employer greet her as the device finishes loading.

_Angella, 10:09AM_

_Good morning, Adora. I hope you’re having a calm and restful flight. My daughter will be picking you up from the airport. Please call if you need anything._

So far, her experience with Bright Moon Playhouse has been, in a word, refreshing.

The hustle of big cities, the long hours and the midnight commutes… they’ve been a dream for her career, but a strain on her sanity. She loves it—she’s _always_ loved it—but three years of nonstop work is really beginning to wear her down. Some days, she feels like she can do anything, go anywhere. Others, she’s sure the end of her short-lived career is around the corner. The exhaustion is compounding in ways she’d never noticed before. She’d taken this job for a change of pace, but maybe—

_HONK HONK HONK._

Adora jumps, probably makes herself look like an idiot.

“Adora? Is that you?”

There’s a beat-up pickup truck idling by the far curb at an angle that is neither in nor out of traffic. Cars angrily swerve around the truck, and a woman with pink hair leans over a man in the passenger seat to wave through the open window.

Adora jogs to the truck, laughing. “It is me!” she calls over the din of traffic. “You must be Glimmer!”

“I am! And this is Bow!” She points to the man. “Throw your stuff in the back!”

Adora complies and the passenger door opens; she squeezes in. Years of theater have ruined her sense of personal space, but before she can think to correct it, the guy—Bow—slings his arm over her shoulders in a half-hug. She reminds herself that they _are_ also theater people, after all.

“It’s so great to finally meet you!” he says, releasing her. “How was your flight?”

Adora groans, well, _theatrically._ “ _Long,_ ” she says. “Bumpy, too. They had the seatbelt sign on the whole time—I couldn’t even move to go to the bathroom.”

The truck lurches as Glimmer careens out into traffic. The flight might have been turbulent, but Adora is all too familiar with how much more likely they are to get in a crash on the road. She doesn’t mention it—she’s only just met these people.

“Well,” Glimmer begins, narrowly making their exit, “Hordak’s known for some crazy warmups—you’ll get to really stretch your legs. You know him, right?”

“He did projections on a show I was in. I had no idea he directed until he asked me to audition.”

“That’s how it is, you know? A million different jobs.” Bow hums. “Like, I’m usually in the house, and Glimmer runs the box.”

“But _not this time!”_ Glimmer proclaims, and Adora’s heart leaps into her throat as the speed limit becomes a suggestion. “The box office cages me no longer!”

“She hates the box,” Bow offers.

“I _hate_ the box. Have you ever done admin, Adora? Your soul gets sucked out through your ears.”

“I haven’t,” Adora admits, “but I worked at a grocery store in high school. It definitely sucked some soul. Soul-sucked?”

“Soul-sucked, sure,” Glimmer agrees. “Regardless, welcome to Bright Moon! You hungry?”

“Absolutely,” Adora says, dead serious. “If I ever answer differently, I’ve been possessed.”

Bow pats her on the shoulder. “This is the start of a beautiful friendship.”

Glimmer’s driving becomes less frightening once they’ve had a quick lunch in the car. Adora can understand—before breakfast she’s anywhere from fifty to a hundred percent more likely to run into a wall. It’s not a fact she shares with people.

It’s nice too because Adora gets two locals to give her a tour of the town that’ll be her home for the next couple of months. They leave the windows down for the warm, pleasant breeze (and because the A/C is busted, according to Bow). He gives her a detailed history on some of the older buildings, and Glimmer points out several parks and restaurants they frequent. It is, quite honestly, a gorgeous little town. Early spring means the streets are lined with flowers, and the trees are greener than anything Adora gets to see in the city. It gives her a vague sense of missing something, although she can’t quite put a finger on it.

“We’re almost at the theater.” Bow points along the road they’re on where Adora can see a tall building, sticking out in the middle of quaint downtown. 

Adora checks her watch. They’re two hours early, which is late enough to get her worry pumping again. She tries to ignore it, but the thing is: she’s usually in the space upwards of two and a _half_ hours before a rehearsal, _especially_ at a new gig. She has a warm up routine—there are stretches, vocal exercises—

“ _That’s_ the bar.” Glimmer points across the street from the theater as they pull up. “Trust me, you _will_ be making some mistakes in there.” It sounds like a threat.

“That’s a little… ominous.”

“Don’t worry.” Bow claps a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “It’s the theater spot. Oh, see—” He cups his free hand by his mouth. “Hey, Huntara!”

Sitting outside, with a cigarette in one hand and a waitress in the other, is a very large, _very_ muscly woman. She gives Bow a half-wave and turns back to the clearly enamored woman beside her. Adora has to actively remind herself to shut her mouth.

“Who’s _that?”_

Glimmer snorts. “That would be the scene shop foreman, technical director, and… I don’t know, _exterminator?_ I think she’s worked here like—Bow, how old is this building?”

“Thirty-one—”

“—thirty-one years.”

“Enough time to have several titles. Mostly she does set stuff. Carpentry, welding—that sort of thing.”

Adora nods, a little dazed, and tears her eyes away so she can grab her two bags.

“Hey, uh...” Glimmer sets a hand on her arm. The tone of her voice tells Adora that she should be worried. About something. She’s sure of it. “You might want to leave your overnight stuff in the car.”

“Glimmer, you haven’t—”

Glimmer clamps a hand over Bow’s mouth, takes in a deep breath that only serves to drive that simmering worry deeper into the pit of Adora’s stomach, and—

“The hotel is getting like major _major_ renovations and it’s the only one close enough for commuting so you’re staying with us instead!” she says in a single breath. “My parents’ place!”

Adora feels like she’s been poked between the eyes. She probably looks like she has been, too. 

“Oh, uh.” She looks between the two, blinking. “Okay. That sounds great!”

They visibly relax. Maybe it’s because some higher power’s reminding her that she needs to do the same, but her anxiety is less tangible. Adora can’t readily fathom any issues with her soon-to-be living situation. New friends and a welcome invitation to a home? More than fine. There are other, much more pressing things to be worried about. She’s just… not sure what they are.

Before she can spiral, Bow and Glimmer lead her into the theater. The lobby is small, built on an incline similar to other theaters she’s worked in. There’s an older chandelier above and a circular window to what Adora can assume is Glimmer’s former prison. 

The comm clicks on. “Pay no attention to that man behind the plexiglass!”

Glimmer rolls her eyes. “Hey, dad.”

“The great and powerful dad has spoken!”

Bow has the decency to laugh. “Hey Micah.” He gestures to Adora. “You haven’t met Adora yet, right?”

“Spoke to her on the phone, I believe! Here, let me—” The comm clicks off and the sound of a door opening echoes against the tile floors. A middle-aged man rounds the corner. Without the box office speaker, his voice sounds much more familiar. “Such a pleasure to finally meet you, Adora!”

She’s not at all prepared for the hug, but she recovers quickly enough. “You too, Micah. You have a beautiful theater.”

“Ah, this is just the lobby! Later when the set crew’s gone, you’ll have to see—” The flip phone clipped to Micah’s belt trills a generic ringtone. He checks it, shoots Adora an apologetic look. “Sorry, duty calls. We’ll chat later!” He runs back to the box.

“Your dad is…”

“A dad. I know,” Glimmer groans.

“I was going to say _sweet_ , but also yes. Very dad.”

“You should see him with Bow’s dads.”

Bow grimaces. “Dad-pocalypse.”

Adora can’t quite place if it’s a genuinely bad thing, or just a genuinely _dad_ thing, but she doesn’t press. She’s never had a father figure, but Micah seems endearing.

They offer a small tour, but Adora forgoes it in favor of a warm up. With a large chunk having been sliced out of her normal routine, she has to hit the ground running if she wants to have any chance of catching up. Bow and Glimmer give her the rehearsal space to herself.

It seems management has already set up tables, chairs, and a bright yellow and blue spike-taped ground plan, but they’re nowhere to be found. She sets her backpack against the wall, and gets to stretching. 

Her routine has kept her mind and body in check amidst thousands of hours of rehearsal. It’s a refined collection of great acting, voice, and movement masters’ techniques, and she’s been perfecting it for years to suit her specific needs. 

Amidst one of her preliminary stretches, a noise catches her attention. When Adora looks, there’s a woman at the far side of the space, supporting a huge bundle of cables over each shoulder. She doesn’t look like she’s struggling, but Adora knows just how heavy one of those runs can be, so she maneuvers out of her stretch and rushes over.

“Hey! Need some help?”

The woman turns to look at her and— _wow._ Oh, that’s not great. She’s frowning, and it looks very much like Adora’s already made a mistake in the fifteen minutes she’s been in the rehearsal space, but her chronic foot-in-mouth disease is not the Big Issue.

The Big Issue: this woman is _hot._

It looks like she’s going to say something of note, but the answer is just a clipped, “No.” She heads over to the wall that’s decorated with hundreds of loosely-organized cables, and begins hanging up each bundle with ease. Either Adora has no idea how much a bundle of lighting cables weigh or this woman is a _lot_ stronger than she looks. Neither is a particularly calming thought.

“Sorry,” Adora finds herself saying even though she’s not sure _why_ , “you’ve got it handled.” _What the hell are you saying, idiot._ “I’m—uh, my name is Adora.”

The woman bristles, and for _fuck’s sake_ , how does one forcibly remove their foot from their mouth? Is there a surgery? Foot removal surgery—

“Catra,” she mutters. She rips off a piece of tape and starts labelling the bundles she’s just hung.

“Nice to meet you,” Adora says, only very slightly relieved. “Are you an electrician?”

The woman—Catra—sighs through her nose, and the anxiety that’s been on a low boil all day suddenly starts rolling. She turns back to Adora, which gives Adora time to make the additional discovery that this woman is not only hot, but has several piercings along her ears, and two (very pretty, very _piercing_ ) different colored eyes. It’s _so_ cool.

“ASM,” Catra says, like it’s the end of the discussion.

Adora, however, suddenly doesn’t understand social cues. “Oh!” she says, like an idiot. “I guess we’ll be working pretty close together!” _Hello? What are you doing?_

“Uh-huh.” If possible, Catra looks even less impressed. “I’ve got to go.”

And she does, leaving Adora more than a little bewildered.

Flustered, she tries going back to her stretches, but her focus has been shattered. Whatever hope she’d previously held for this production has flown out the window after that interaction.

Child’s pose pops every single vertebrae in her back, and the groan she releases into the floor is equal parts relief and frustration.

“Fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [i'm on on tumblr too](https://bazaarwords.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [find the ongoing glossary here](https://bazaarwords.tumblr.com/post/622958274072969216/a-very-long-theater-glossary)


	2. Prologue

“Fuck.”

Everything is supposed to be done. She’s checked off every single item on Weaver’s stupid to-do list in excruciating detail. But when she looks over it again _one more time_ , Catra is mortified to find that the list itself is missing one very important piece of equipment. It’s not Catra’s fault, for once. But it’ll be her head on a platter if she can’t conjure up the item out of thin air.

“Do we have any water?” Scorpia asks, like it’s not going to cost her a limb, which it probably won’t. It makes the hairs on the back of Catra’s neck stand on end.

They— _She_ is going to be royally screwed if she can’t find several gallons of water in the next—she checks her phone—five minutes. They’re currently in the lobby, directing actor traffic as they file in. Seven actors, musical director, the choreographer, the director, and the three of them in a room for eight hours. It amounts to… more water than she can carry, even if she had an hour to do so. 

“Why doesn’t this nightmare building have _water fountains?”_

“There used to be one outside. It was covered in my orientation—”

“Scorpia.” She feels like she’s about to explode. “I need you to stop talking and help me figure out how we’re going to get about twelve gallons of water upstairs in the next four minutes.”

Mercifully, Scorpia seems to get it. There is an unspoken moment between them, and for the first time in a long time, Catra feels understood.

Scorpia bolts out the front door.

“What—” If she’s bailing _now_ , Catra is going to have to skip town and change her name. “ _Scorpia!_ What the hell are you _doing?”_

Scorpia is already across the street. “Going to the corner store! I’ll be right back!”

Catra is stuck watching as the only buffer between her and a painful death disappears around the corner, out of view. It doesn’t matter how many stage weights Scorpia can carry, there is absolutely _no_ _way_ she can manage that much water on her own, and even less of a chance that she’ll make it back before Weaver realizes that they’re missing the most critical item they can possibly be missing.

It’s not even her _fault_ and now she’ll have to take the fall for Scorpia _too_ and as if life could not possibly get any worse, she checks her phone. She has less than one minute. It can _always_ get worse.

She sprints up the stairs like her ass is on fire, takes them three at a time. The back door to the rehearsal space is open, and she slips in just as the final actor does. At least she won’t be adding _lateness_ to Weaver’s laundry list of sins.

For a long moment, she thinks she’s in the clear. Then, Weaver catches her eye, which immediately induces a feeling of _sickening_ _dread_ , and she’s being called over to the management table. 

“Where is Scorpia?”

 _Am I her fucking keeper?_ “She’ll be here soon.”

“ _Soon?”_

If Catra keeps biting the inside of her cheeks like this, she’s never going to be able to eat a salt and vinegar potato chip again, which is a tragic thought. They’re the best.

“Yes.”

Weaver eyes her with as much contempt as she can (which is a _lot_ ) and it’s almost enough to keep Catra’s focus away from the window. The window, which she can see Scorpia from. Scorpia, who has stolen a shopping cart.

It takes an enormous amount of effort to keep her face expressionless. Weaver’s bright green eyes scan her face, and it makes unease prickle under her skin. In the periphery of her vision, she catches the sight of Scorpia narrowly dodging a car to come jogging under the window’s field of view. Her eyes reflexively flick over to the window, and a moment too late, Weaver turns to look. Scorpia is safe. For now.

When she turns back, Catra’s preparing herself for any of the million belittling questions she’s usually forced to endure, but the front door opens before she has to hear any of them. The dread from before now coils in her stomach, but she can’t be sure why. A number of things have _already_ gone wrong, and an even larger number have the potential to.

The room falls silent. It’s only mildly relieving: it’s Hordak, breezing into the room with entirely too much entitlement for Catra’s liking. She’s not exactly a fan of the man, but according to Weaver, he’d had a hand in keeping her employed. However, she’s also never been inclined to believe anything Weaver says.

The actors look like a bunch of begging puppies. Catra resists the urge to roll her eyes. Among the small crowd she notices the woman— _Adora_ —she’d met before. As if the awkward conversation and title of lead role wasn’t bad enough, the woman looks like a yoga instructor had their way with the cover of a _Women’s Health_ magazine and shat out… _her_. Her eyes are on Hordak, but as Catra glares, they land on her. Adora flashes her a lopsided smile, and looks back at Hordak.

The dread in her stomach suddenly dissolves. Before she can so much as think about _that,_ the door flies open, slamming against the wall.

“Oh, jeez,” Scorpia huffs, hunched over the stolen cart. “Oh, wow. Fast.”

If Catra hadn’t already been slated for execution, she sure as hell is about to be now.

Scorpia looks up, noticing the entire room staring at her. “Oh, uh—I’m… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry! I—you’ve started.” She wheels the cart into the room gingerly and the wheels groan under what has to be a hundred pounds of water. “I just, uh… I had to get some—you know— _water._ For… you all. So if anyone’s thirsty, just—”

“Scorpia,” Weaver says, absolutely a command.

Catra can feel Weaver’s gaze slide right back to her, eyes boring into the back of her head. Drafting a will is pointless now—she won’t survive until break. Scorpia tiptoes through the actors, leaving the cart by the wall. Catra watches in abject horror as Adora sets a hand on Scorpia’s shoulder and _thanks_ her. She’s assumed this woman would be insufferable. She’s completely unprepared for whatever the hell _that_ is.

“Sorry,” Scorpia whispers, half to Catra, half to Weaver. When neither answers, she turns to the room.

Hordak has positioned himself in the middle, hands clasped behind his back like he’s a general or like he’s got a stick up his ass. He paces the room, eyeing every actor with disinterest. Catra watches as Adora straightens up when he gets to her.

She crosses her arms. _Kiss-ass,_ she thinks.

Then, with a spin so hilariously dramatic—Catra clenches her arms for dear life—Hordak raises his hands to the ceiling.

“We are going to create—” He pauses. “ _Art._ ”

She’s never eating salt and vinegar chips again.

* * *

Hordak is… a lot, Adora realizes.

They’re only half an hour into rehearsal and he’s already given them his whole life’s story. She hasn’t been paying attention, really—she spends the time trying to remember the names of the other actors she’s met instead. In the theater, she’s found that having more connections means more opportunities for future work. She’s always preferred genuine ones, and knowing a person’s name is a surefire way to get the ball rolling.

She’d hoped Glimmer’s promise of an active rehearsal wasn’t all conjecture, but with every passing moment she has less and less faith.

Bow and Glimmer are on her left, apparently just as disinterested. Glimmer picks at her nails, Bow watches her. Directly across from her is a man who’d broken into song in the hallway earlier. Not unusual for the theater, but he’d been too preoccupied for her to ask his name. Next to him, there’s a woman who looks about ready to sink into the floor. She doesn’t know their names, but the _child_ sitting on the man’s right, she’s already met: Frosta, who’d introduced herself as the shows’ fight captain; Adora still isn’t sure whether to be impressed or afraid. To Adora’s right is the only cast member who seems to be invested in Hordak’s story: a woman she knows only as _flowerchild95@etherianet.com_. Upon closer inspection, however, the combination of glazed eyes and an absent smile gives Adora the impression that maybe she’s not quite so enraptured. 

“…and that is how I’ve come to this position. How I’ve solidified my place in the world of theater,” Hordak finishes, and a pregnant pause follows. “Now, rise.”

Adora all but leaps off the ground, a little uncoordinated, but jazzed to get some real acting done before her other foot falls asleep.

Hordak paces around the circle, sizing up each of the actors again. She remembers the man being intimidating, even as a projection designer on the last show she’d worked on. Even now she can remember him sitting alone at the back of the house, grumbling at his computer. He never spoke to anyone, but his design had made the flat surfaces of their set look as if they were shifting and rippling like waves, as well as making projected schools of fish pass along the walls of the theater. It had been a fantastic design, and _Salinean Summer_ had gone on to receive critical acclaim.

Now, however, it’s apparent that there had been a very different personality hiding behind that computer.

“We will begin with names. _Only_ your name, and speak it with intention. Who are you? Who will you be?”

It’s... cryptic, to say the least, but Adora has worked with vaguer direction.

They go around the circle: Perfuma, Mermista, Sea Hawk, Frosta, Bow, Glimmer, and then her. When Adora says her name, she feels like she’s supposed to... _feel_ something. Nothing comes, but Hordak raises an eyebrow at her before he turns away.

“I will now introduce you to your choreographer and musical director. They will be leading you through a warm up.”

The pronoun gives Adora the impression that the two are separate, but when only one person comes sauntering through the door as if on cue, she gets the picture immediately. It’s not because they’re the only new arrival, it’s because she knows them. _Everyone_ knows them.

“He- _llo_ , actors!” they say, arms thrown out to the sides. “If you know my work, you know me. And I am _sure_ you all know my work.”

“Holy shit,” Mermista says. Everyone’s thinking it.

Double Trouble smiles, gives that same toothy grin that has won them a Tony Award in every single category one can win a Tony Award.

The most versatile person in theater _history_ is currently standing in the middle of their circle, taking in each actor with interest. Adora has never been wonderful at keeping her emotions off her face, onstage or off, but now she’s finding it much harder than usual. Double Trouble winks at her, and she remembers to keep her mouth shut for the second time in one day. What is she, a fish?

“You all must be thinking: ‘Why are they _here_ , of all places?’ Bright Moon sure as hell isn’t my style, but this show is!” They thread their arm through Hordak’s, and the man frowns, although Adora isn’t sure if he has any other facial expressions. He could be thrilled, for all she knows. “When Hordak told me you were doing _She-Ra_ — _oh,_ I _had_ to come down. A glitzy musical, only produced once and yet, the catalyst for theater’s biggest and most controversial name since… well, since _me?_ How could I resist?”

 _Theater’s biggest and most controversial name_. Mara. _The_ Mara.

Years before, she’d been shot into stardom within these walls, in this show, in this _role_. Hers wasn’t a happy story in the end, but Adora had fallen in love with the show the moment she’d read the script. She knew the backstory, knew that many had even called the role _cursed_ after Mara’s rise and fall. But the theater is full of superstitions, and she isn’t Mara. When she’d gotten the call, it had felt like destiny. Who would she have been to say no?

Hordak gives Double Trouble the floor, sitting at the management table beside their stage manager. There, she spots Catra. She’s typing on a laptop that’s covered in stickers. Adora can make out bands she has never heard of, quotes she can’t quite read, and a large astrological symbol.

 _Astrology,_ she thinks, _that’s a good talking point._ Better than whatever nonsense had come out of her mouth earlier. Maybe she’ll have a chance to reconcile things.

Before she can figure out which sign it is and make a step-by-step plan on how to approach Catra again, Double Trouble is having them run around the room as fast as they can.

“Get that energy _going!_ _”_

“ _ADVENTURE!”_ Sea Hawk bellows, throwing his hands in the air.

“ _Ooh, yes,_ hot stuff! Yell, scream, roll around on the floor!” Double Trouble calls. “You’re all _stars!”_

It gets the rest of the cast excited, and finally, Adora’s allowed to let off some of the steam she’s been building up since her flight. Or, more accurately, since she’d booked this gig. She’s here, she’s already made a couple of friends, they’re letting her run around, and she’s going to be able to act. Nothing can stop her.

Except, of course, when she runs headlong into Perfuma.

Adora, in that split-second, has the presence of mind to grab Perfuma by the shoulders before she can fall. It’s the most clear-headed thought she’s had all day, and it actually works.

“I’m sorry!” Adora exclaims. It’s only her second-worst introduction of the day, which is probably a record for her. “Are you okay?”

Perfuma looks a little dazed, but she waves Adora’s concern away and smiles. “No apologies necessary! It was a happy accident. It's so nice to finally meet—”

“Running!” Hordak demands from his table, clapping for their attention.

“ _Shit,_ ” Adora says under her breath. Perfuma shoots her an apologetic smile and runs off.

It’s the beginning of one of the most intense warm ups Adora has ever endured. In the gym, something like this is normal. Her double-cardio days involve much more running than whatever it is they’re doing, but she’s never done this in rehearsal. Glimmer _had_ said something about Hordak’s warm ups, but he’s just watching and shouting a command every once in a while. This is Double Trouble’s work. She’s not sure if she loves or hates them.

The rest of the cast looks about ready to collapse when Weaver, their stage manager, calls a ten. Some of the actors _do_ actually collapse into heaps on the floor as the other ASM, Scorpia, passes out water.

It’d been intense, yes, but Adora can handle intense. She thrives off it. It’s given her the boost she’s needed.

She takes a bottle from Scorpia with a smile. “Thank you.”

“Thank _you_ _!_ I mean, wait.” Scorpia surveys the room, nodding to herself. She turns back to Adora. “I just wanted to say, I am a _huge_ fan of your work. _Moons Over Mystacor?_ Wow, what a performance! I was telling Catra and the other crew about it earlier!”

“Oh—uh, thank you!” Adora blubbers. It hasn’t been long since she’s been getting recognized, and it still doesn’t feel real when it happens. She never has any idea how to respond. “I’m… I’m glad you liked it!”

Scorpia goes on to describe, in full detail, what numbers are her favorites, the best design elements, and about a million other things Adora can’t keep track of, leaving only when Weaver needs her to move something heavy. It’s eaten up about half of Adora’s break, but the excitement of recognition still hums pleasantly in her chest.

At the management table, she notices Catra again. The embarrassment of her earlier blunder weighs heavy. How _stupid_ of her to assume? She’s one of the ASMs, of _course_ she’s capable of carrying some cables. The thought nags at Adora’s mind just long enough for her feet to decide on carrying her over to the management table.

“Hey, Catra,” she says, and the greeting sounds forced. Great start.

Catra glances up from her laptop for a second. “Hey.”

“Hey,” she says again, because clearly something in her brain is malfunctioning. “I just wanted to apologize for... earlier.” The raised eyebrow she receives isn’t particularly helpful for her confidence, but she blazes on. “I came over to help you and it was totally out of line, you know? You’re—I mean, you know what you’re doing.”

“You already apologized,” Catra says slowly.

“I, uh… I guess I did.” _Abort mission._ “Um…” _Abort now you fucking dunce._

Once upon a time, she’d had a plan for this. She was going to ask a question, start a conversation. The intent seems so far away now, she can’t remember a single part of her half-baked plan.

It’s a small mercy, but the corner of Catra’s mouth quirks up ever so slightly at Adora’s painful attempt at communication. Whether the motivation is pity or amusement or a combination of the two, it softens the blow.

“We’re back!” Double Trouble sings, beckoning the cast to return and thereby saving Adora from another second of what seems to be the most embarrassing moment of her life.

Catra turns back to her laptop, unbothered, and it all really shouldn’t feel like this much of a failure, but it does.

Fortunately (or not), their next exercise is a welcome distraction.

* * *

Her mood has lifted in ways she’d never before thought possible.

That, of course, is in large part due to watching the cast of _She-Ra: The Musical_ dance around the room like barn animals. It is entertainment in its truest form.

Catra has appearances to keep up and a reputation to uphold, so she keeps her expression blank. Behind the mask, however, she is so thoroughly enjoying the parade of embarrassment that even _she_ can’t deny it to herself.

There’s the woman with the bluish hair, riding on Mustache Boy’s back as he crawls around the room, mooing. There’s Flower Girl, with her arms glued to her sides, wriggling around on the floor. The small angry child is… a bear? Maybe? She’s just yelling, so Catra can’t be sure. Sparkles and her man-friend are chickens or roosters, clucking and pecking at each other.

And then, there’s the star of the show.

It’s honestly kind of impressive how she manages to move. She’s on all fours, galloping around the other actors, then trotting up to each of them in turn. She makes it a point to do this to everyone, and the reactions are varied. When Catra had woken up this morning, she could never have guessed she’d be watching a woman-pretending-to-be-a-horse trying to communicate with a woman-pretending-to-be-a-worm. But the theater is unpredictable, so here she is.

On her left, Scorpia’s hands are clasped tightly in front of her mouth. She’s either trying to keep herself from laughing or is focusing _quite_ intently, but either way, her knuckles are white with the effort. Weaver is on her right, taking notes and very obviously not looking at the scene before them.

“That’s _it!_ Harness the instinct!”

Double Trouble is the ringleader of their own ridiculous circus, and Catra has a fleeting impulse to thank them for the gift they’ve inadvertently given her. Even _she_ knows of the world-famous “theater artist”, but before this very moment, she’d never paid them much attention. How _Bright Moon Playhouse_ of all places has managed to book them is a beautiful mystery, but Catra’s pleased nonetheless. After all, they’ve brought a little enjoyment to the horror show that is her current employment.

The actors begin moving faster at Double Trouble’s command, and Catra has to mirror Scorpia’s pose, bottling up the laughter that is threatening her very life.

When they move on from _that_ ridiculous exercise, they go to a vocal warm up that has them hooting and hollering and finally Catra can’t watch it anymore. She buries her head in her laptop, shaking, and feels motivated to start paperwork for the first time in her life.

The warm ups go on for _ever_. Finally, when it’s time for the table read, Catra is the unfortunate recipient of stage direction duty. Scorpia is distraught, and Weaver doesn’t care. She’s obviously set this up because she somehow already has a running list of Things Catra Hates. It’s wherever she keeps the other lists to torture Catra with, probably. Stage Manager Hell? Who knows.

To make things worse, when they push some tables together, Catra gets stuck between Scorpia (upset and hiding it poorly) and Adora (nervous and hiding it poorly).

It is, at the very least, comforting to know that their lead isn’t all sunshine and star power. From her two interactions, it seems that Princess Broadway is awkward, if not socially inept. Now, she can see Adora fidgeting up close. It all feels very human, coming from their star performer, and it’s a little off-putting in a way Catra can’t readily explain to herself.

She doesn’t have time to, because at that moment Hordak announces the show. “ _She-Ra: The Musical.”_

Catra takes a deep breath, already dreading the next few hours. “Lights up," she reads, "She-Ra stands downstage center, bathed in golden light. She holds her sword aloft.”

“For the honor of Grayskull!”

* * *

“We’re home!”

Glimmer’s definition of _home_ is something more akin to a _mansion._

At Adora’s studio apartment in the city, when she comes home with bags, she barely has enough room in the front hallway to hobble sideways to the main room. Here, the double doors lead to a foyer—a _foyer_ —and the three of them can stand side-by-side with room to spare.

Before she can get whiplash or vertigo (or _break her neck_ ) from looking up at the vaulted ceiling, Bow and Glimmer are directing her into the equally massive living area. Adora finally understands the difference between a _room_ and an _area_.

Micah looks up from where he’s setting the table, smiling when he notices them.

“Welcome to our humble abode!” he says. “Well, maybe not so humble, but welcome anyway.”

“You’re just in time for dinner,” another voice says from their right. Adora turns to look, and _wow_ Angella is taller than she thought she’d be. “Micah’s made noodles.”

Glimmer throws her things on the couch and makes a beeline for the kitchen, while Bow gives Micah and Angella hugs and moves to help Micah with table setting.

“A pleasure to meet you in person, Adora,” Angella says, extending a hand. Adora shakes it. “I hope this isn’t too inconvenient. We only found out early this afternoon, and I’m sorry I wasn’t the one to inform you.”

“Oh, it’s no problem at all!” Adora waves her off. “It’s exciting, really. And you have such a beautiful home, I really appreciate it.”

“It’s no trouble at all, you’re more than— _Glimmer!_ Put that away—oh, I’m so sorry, Adora—Glimmer, _put it back!”_

Adora is left standing in the living area, bewildered, as Angella bustles off to the kitchen, where Glimmer is handling a bottle of rum and three shot glasses.

“Mom, I’m _twenty-two!”_

Surprisingly, dinner after that goes off without a hitch. It’s the kind of warm family meal Adora has always dreamed of, and both Angella and Micah are just as welcoming as Bow and Glimmer. It turns out that Bow is over because he hates being alone and his fathers are out of town for the month—they’re on an archeological dig or the like. Adora finds it massively cool, but Bow doesn’t seem keen to continue that line of conversation. It’s a social cue Adora can actually understand.

Angella and Micah offer to do the dishes, and Adora finds herself in Glimmer’s room, watching as the woman takes three shot glasses out of her pockets. Bow has the rum, although Adora’s not sure where he’d been hiding it. Miraculously, it’s expensive enough to not burn going down—a departure from her usual experiences.

“So, Adora,” Bow says, “tell us how you’re feeling after your first day.” He leans against the bed, cross-legged, and Glimmer lies back against him.

Adora still hasn’t figured out if they’re dating yet, but she’s not bold enough to ask. She takes another shot. “Well,” she begins, “I love the town. I might go exploring on our day off.”

“Oh, we’ll take you around! Glimmer and I know _all_ the spots.”

“Yeah, all five of them.”

“ _Seven,_ ” Bow asserts.

Adora shrugs. “That’s better than _none_. I mean, there’s… the bar?”

“One down, six to go.” Glimmer rolls her eyes, unscrews the bottle. She shoots Adora a coy look over a swig of rum. “Anything else besides the town?”

Adora reads the look and instantly her anxiety spikes. She remembers those two painfully awkward conversations and that small smile, but surely she can’t be _that_ obvious. A show-mance is _not_ something she needs right now (not that she’s taken any viable steps in that direction) when her career is her focus. Everything she does here needs to be with that in mind. She knows this. It doesn’t change the fact that they have a very pretty ASM.

She doesn’t say _that_. It’s only been a day, she barely even knows the people she’s drinking with, let alone their management team. Instead, she settles for a much more tepid: “The rest of the cast seems great.” Then, her lizard brain demands she broach the subject and she adds, “I spoke to the ASMs, too.” It’s the worst attempt at nonchalance she has ever heard. Luckily, no one notices her poor acting.

“Scorpia seems like a sweetheart,” Bow says. “She’s new, but I hear she’s worked all over. Catra, on the other hand…” He trails off, taking the bottle from Glimmer.

Adora is on the edge of her… well, butt. She’s sitting on the floor. How does she ask for more without sounding interested? She’s never been very good at fishing for information. Why can’t people just say exactly what they mean? Why does there have to be all this—

“Ugh, _Catra._ Don’t even get me started.”

 _Please get started,_ Adora begs silently.

“Come on, Glimmer. Be nice.”

“Look, I just think that everyone should keep their distance, is all,” Glimmer warns. “After last season—”

Bow pushes at her shoulder. “ _Glimmer._ ”

“What happened last season?” Adora blurts, unable to contain it.

Glimmer opens her mouth to respond, but she looks back to catch the withering look Bow gives her. It shuts her right up.

He turns to Adora. “It’s really not our place to tell. There’s enough gossip in the theater without _anyone else_ spreading it around.”

“Fine, Bow, yes,” Glimmer groans, flopping over onto the floor. “We should all have an impeccable moral compass like you, but unfortunately, some of us are _deeply flawed._ ”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t try,” he responds, giving her a matronly pat on the shoulder. “Besides, there’s much kinder gossip we can fill Adora in on.”

 _That_ changes Glimmer’s mood. She sits bolt upright, eyes wild. “The grid story?”

Bow gives her a gesture to continue, and she swipes the rum, looking Adora dead in the eye.

“We’re gonna need a few more shots.”

* * *

Things are quiet.

Everyone else is gone, and the only light in the theater comes from the exit signs and the ghost light on stage. It’s only under the cover of darkness where she’s finally able to really relax. 

If you aren’t looking for it, Catra’s alcove isn’t something you’d see. It’s along a catwalk too high and out of the way to hang lights from, although several ancient Leko lights hang from the handrail, broken and forgotten. On the far end, there’s a hole in the wall that had once housed an A/C unit. Now, it has a jury-rigged power strip, a duffel bag, and a foam mattress topper with a pillow and some old sheets.

It’s not much, but for now, it’s home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading y'all!! As always, a big thank you to my beta, osmrice, who is saving my life one day at a time. Also thank you to golari, whose comments are the wind beneath my wings.
> 
> If you have questions, don't hesitate to ask! :))
> 
> [i'm on on tumblr too](https://bazaarwords.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [find the ongoing glossary here](https://bazaarwords.tumblr.com/post/622958274072969216/a-very-long-theater-glossary)


	3. Act One: Inciting Incident

“ _Zoooo, woaaaah, SHAAAA!”_

Catra rubs at her temples. Scorpia’s brought coffee along with enough water for the day, and both things are a blessing because there hadn’t been any sign of either in the green room. Weaver is, unsurprisingly, not the kind of stage manager to make coffee or bring breakfast for the cast and crew.

“ _The big black bug bit the big brown—”_

She closes her eyes and tries in vain to access whatever Management Magic she’d used in the past to get through actor warm ups. When nothing comes up, she chooses to dissociate instead. Maybe that had been the real magic all along.

For several long minutes, she stares at her laptop screen. It’s a welcome respite until Scorpia nudges her. “Do we have a schedule for costume fittings?”

Catra resists the overwhelming urge to slam her head into the table.

“No,” she says, jaw clenched, “I’ll make one.”

“Oh, _thank you_ ,” Scorpia sighs and gives Catra a _very_ forceful pat on the shoulder. “I’ve been trying to get this contact sheet together. Let me tell you, I did _not_ realize how many—”

“ _Scorpia,"_ Weaver warns, and Scorpia goes back to her laptop.

Then, as is her terrible custom, Weaver turns her attention to Catra. “I suggest you start now. Fittings begin in an hour.”

One day, Catra will take a metal chair to Weaver, wrestling-style. Today, much to Catra’s bone-deep disappointment, is not that day.

She opens a blank spreadsheet, the daily call, and the file of the script. Making the schedule isn’t the hard part, but piecing together which scenes they’re working today with who’s involved in said scenes without disrupting the flow of the rehearsal… Catra knows that Weaver’s done this to her on purpose. She knows that the old swamp hag wants to see her fail. But Catra is a creature of spite. Her whole _life_ has been spent persevering out of spite.

So she does it. She makes the schedule before warm ups are done, and she emails it to Weaver.

Weaver’s silence is, as they say, _golden._

Catra’s day begins to improve after that. Mustache Boy is the first to head to his fittings, and the room is better with his absence. The rest of the cast hangs back as they begin the first scene.

Adora stands in the middle of their spike-taped ground plan, holding her heavy wooden rehearsal sword in one hand, and her script in the other. She’s wearing a white tank top that says “ _Good Vibes_ ” in the most nauseating gold cursive imaginable. That, along with her worn red jacket and yet another pair of gray yoga pants completes the _lifestyle blogger_ look she’s probably going for.

Scorpia, to her own excitement and Catra’s immeasurable relief, is on stage directions today. Hopefully, Catra had done a bad enough job yesterday that the new assignment sticks, but knowing how much Weaver enjoys inflicting pain on her, it’s not likely.

Adora holds her sword in the air. It’s… honestly, a little impressive.

The thing has to be fifteen pounds of solid wood. Huntara had made it for them upon... an admittedly vague request. Huntara, like Scorpia, has no sense of how much anything weighs. With Scorpia lifting sixty pounds of solid metal in one hand yesterday and this fucking tree trunk of a sword, Catra feels like an animated heap of noodles. Asking for help is a sign of weakness, though, and _especially_ on the crew, but that doesn’t mean the damn thing isn’t heavy. Not that Catra would ever _admit_ that, and also not to _Adora_ , it seems, because it looks more like she’s holding an inflatable toy than a two-by-four.

Catra is surrounded by muscle-bound freaks. It’s unfortunate that “muscle-bound freak” is her type.

She goes back to her rehearsal report.

“For the honor of Grayskull!” Adora bellows, sounding more confident than she’d been at the table read the day before. When Catra looks up, she’s lowering her sword. She doesn’t even glance at her script when she continues. “Fabulous secrets were revealed to me the day I held aloft my sword. Only a few others know my true power. Together, me and my friends of the Great Rebellion strive to free the world from the evil forces that threaten it!”

Catra glances over at Scorpia’s script—they’re not doing line notes yet, but her reading is word-perfect. Cheesy, but perfect.

 _Great, she knows the first line,_ Catra thinks sourly. Really though, it’s a relief. She hates having to do line notes, and if Adora is memorizing already, it bodes well for the future. _Maybe she’s not a_ complete _tool._

They run through the first five scenes before Weaver calls a quick break, and Catra quickly realizes that Adora’s capacity for memorization extends far beyond just the first line. They’re only ten pages in, but Adora has retained every single word. She never once looks down at her script. It seems that she’s holding it more for show, or in solidarity with the rest of the cast. Everyone else has their heads in their binders, bumbling around as Hordak attempts to block them. The longer it goes on, the more astonishing it is. Everyone else is preoccupied with their own lines or blocking or paperwork, but Catra has the time to observe, her rehearsal report temporarily forgotten. She’s the only one that notices, apparently, because no one says a damn thing about how impressive it is on their _second day_.

Catra resents being impressed.

They return from break and run the scenes again, and _again_ Adora doesn’t miss a word, _or_ any of her brand-new blocking. How is she _doing_ that? She picks up every single movement Hordak or Double Trouble throw at her, implementing effortlessly it as they run scenes. She never steps over anyone else’s lines, never misses a beat.

 _Is this just how Equity actors are?_ Catra thinks to herself, but she knows that isn’t true. They’ve brought in others in the past, ones with shitty memories and even shittier attitudes, and it’s colored her perception for as long as she’s worked in the theater. The more she thinks about it, the more she realizes.

Adora is just _Like That._

Over their next two breaks, Catra notices her smiling at the other actors, waving off compliments when she gets them, and even going so far as to pick up stray pieces of trash that haven’t made it to the bins. By the time lunch rolls around, Catra is thoroughly baffled.

She packs up and slips away, dodging Weaver and Scorpia and ignoring the “Hey, Catra—” she catches as she takes the back door out of the rehearsal space. It had been Adora. She doesn’t think she can take any of that saccharine bullshit the other girl’s been dishing out to the cast all day, so she sneaks away to the break room.

As her luck usually goes, she finds that the break room isn’t empty.

Lonnie, Rogelio, and Kyle are sharing a table and a large Tupperware of something that smells _delicious._ Catra’s stomach protests as she digs through the disappointing contents of the fridge.

“ _Dame el tenedor, carechimba!"_ Rogelio demands, grabbing at Lonnie from across the table.

She holds a fork over her head. “You made this for _me,_ Rogelio. I’m only sharing out of the kindness of my heart.”

“Well, I haven’t had any,” Kyle whines, “and there aren’t any more plastic forks in the drawer.”

“My kindness only extends so far.”

Catra listens to the three of them bicker like a married… throuple. There’s nothing in-date or of substance in the fridge, so she takes an opened bag of chips from the counter and settles down on her chair to eat. The set crew is loud, and the chips are stale, so she trashes them and leaves.

Using an exploit she’d discovered late one night, she buys a roll of cookies and gets a free bag of trail mix from the hundred-year-old vending machine at the end of one of the theater’s many hallways. The machine rattles and groans as it gives up its goods, and Catra makes her way up to the roof to eat in peace.

The set crew is on break too, as evidenced by the throuple in the break room, but luckily people don’t normally take breaks on the roof. Not many people know that it’s accessible. It’s midday, and she’s alone, enjoying the warm spring breeze and the sounds of cars passing. It gives her plenty of time to relax before the next four hours of cheesy one-liners and out-of-tune songs.

There was a time when she’d genuinely loved working at the Playhouse, when she’d hummed the numbers along with the cast and done her duties with gusto.

It was long before last season, of course.

She stuffs the last three cookies in her mouth and heads back inside.

The rehearsal space is still relatively empty, with only the small, angry child and Flower Girl having returned from their breaks. They’re at the far end of the space, running lines.

There’s a sandwich sitting at her station, complete with a sticky note that has a smiley face on top.

 _Scorpia,_ she thinks, and finds herself smiling for the first time today.

The other ASM isn’t around, and neither is Weaver, so Catra sits and scarfs down the sandwich, which is just as wildly delicious as the other one. When she’s done, others begin to file in, and just like yesterday, Adora catches her eye and smiles. She’s _got_ to stop doing that.

They’re moving on to the next scenes—there’s some sort of sword fight between Adora and Mustache Boy, followed by a chunk of exposition during which Catra almost falls asleep, and finally, a meeting of the Princess Alliance, sans She-Ra. It’s a moment of development and deeper understanding for the other characters, blah, blah, blah.

It’s Adora’s time for a fitting, the last one on Catra’s impeccable schedule, but the woman doesn’t leave as they begin work on the next scene. She comes up to the management table.

“Sorry,” she says, eyes darting between the three of them. “I’m not sure where the costume shop is.”

Scorpia’s in the middle of a massive paragraph of stage directions, and Weaver is writing the blocking in her massive binder. Adora’s eyes land on Catra’s, and she smiles one of those stupid, leading-lady smiles. Catra sighs and shuts her computer, getting out of her chair.

“Catra,” Weaver says, tacking on a paper-thin layer of sweetness so Adora doesn’t immediately realize that she’s the offspring of hate and anguish. “Make copies of the fitting sheets while you’re up there. And make sure Razz hasn’t… _misplaced_ anything.”

“Sure,” Catra says, and swallows the following “ _jackass_ ” that crawls up her throat.

Adora follows her out of the space, and they walk in silence for a solid minute. “I like the stickers on your laptop,” she says like she’s been thinking about it. It’s surprisingly not as awkward as yesterday.

“You listen to metal?” Catra asks, genuinely curious.

“Here and there. I think I’ve heard of The Horde.”

“ _Everyone’s_ heard of The Horde.” They’re her favorite band, and a staple among metalheads.

“I’m pretty inept when it comes to anything that isn’t in a musical,” Adora laughs, and the statement is not at all as entitled as Catra imagined it would be. “Maybe you could show me a few songs?”

Catra has to oblige. “Sure. _Fright Zone_ and _Imp_ are, in my opinion, their best albums. Objectively.”

“Well, far be it for me to argue your objective opinion.”

_Oh, what?_

Catra raises an eyebrow, and a smirk forces its way on to her lips. So Adora _does_ have a sense of humor. Suddenly, Catra wants to see how far it goes.

“All of my objective opinions are fact. Especially when it comes to The Horde.”

Adora holds her hands up, grinning. “I’m just an actor. My opinions are usually wrong.”

Catra scoffs. “Hey, you said it. I won’t be held for slander.”

“As an ASM I think you have a legal obligation to slander actors.”

They trade jabs all the way to the costume shop, and it’s Adora that notices that they’ve made it to the doorway. Catra has to blink a few times to snap herself out of… whatever's just happened. Adora just smiles and peers around the costume shop.

“Razz?” Catra calls. She can hear rustling among the mountains of clothes and shoes. She turns to Adora. “She’s a little… actually, no, she’s a _lot._ ”

“Who’s that? Loo-Kee, is that you?”

A rolling rack of costumes shudders and the clothes part, revealing all four and half feet of Razz. She pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose and squints at the two of them.

“Hi,” Adora says brightly, “nice to meet—”

“Oh, Mara, dearie! I knew you’d come to visit!”

Adora has enough time to shoot Catra just one look of sheer panic before Razz comes clambering through the piles of costumes to hug her.

“Mara, dear, you’ve gotten so…” She squints up at Adora’s bewildered face. “Pale? …You’re not my Mara, are you?”

* * *

Adora finds, within thirty seconds of being in the costume shop, that she is completely out of her depth.

She’s had plenty of fittings before, but this is less a fitting and more an _experience._ She’s glad to have Catra around. Catra, who she hopes she’s begun a tenuous friendship with, if their conversation on the way here is anything to go on.

Catra’s on the far end of the shop, rifling through a stack of papers. “Are you _sure_ you left them here, Razz?”

“Oh, yes, yes,” Razz mutters to herself with an accent Adora cannot place for the life of her, as she shuffles back and forth through the cramped aisles.

Adora meets Catra’s eyes across the room, and Catra smirks at her. She probably looks like an idiot, arms outstretched and legs splayed as she waits for Razz to find her measuring tape. When Catra looks back to her papers, Adora can’t help but remember the way Glimmer had mentioned her the night before. She’s known both women for less than forty-eight hours, but she’s more than willing to look past whatever problems Glimmer might have with Catra, and vice versa. It’s not _just_ because she has a very small crush. She likes to give people the benefit of the doubt, is all.

“Ah-hah!” Razz cackles from behind, and then goes silent. “No, that’s not it.”

“Did you even write any of them down?” Catra calls, now under the desk where she’d found the papers. Adora watches her head duck out of view. “Razz, are you growing something under here?”

“Things grow everywhere, dearie!”

Adora snorts, she can’t help herself. Unfortunately, the amusement is short-lived because something small and gray shoots across the small visible section of floor, scaring Adora half to death. She drops her arms and leaps back, her heart in her throat.

“Is that a _mouse?"_

There’s a _bang,_ followed by an “Ow, _fuck!”_ and the amusement is back.

“Oh, that’s just Loo-Kee!” Razz admonishes. “Loo-Kee, don’t be rude! Come out here and meet our new friend!”

Catra emerges from under the table, hand on her head. She takes one look at Adora, who is trying with everything she has to not start laughing, and rolls her eyes. “There’s no mouse, is there.”

“No, there is absolutely a mouse,” Adora says, still trying to keep from laughing. “What, are you afraid of them?”

Catra opens her mouth to answer, but Razz is between them, holding a wad of papers in one hand and her measuring tape in the other, high above her head. “Of course there’s a mouse! There are always mice!” The two of them stare, open-mouthed. Razz looks up at the contents in her hands. “Ah, _there_ they are!” She shoves the papers into Catra’s chest and goes to work moving Adora’s limbs.

There’s not another word from Catra as she goes to uncover a printer, buried under a pile of hats.

Razz mutter-sings as she works, writing Adora’s measurements on her arm in gold permanent marker.

“Ah, Mara, you haven’t changed a bit,” she hums to herself. “I bet you’ll fit into your old costume!”

“Um… Razz, my name is Adora, remember—”

“Let me go find it for you!” She ambles off into the mess.

She looks to Catra for help, but Catra’s busy beating the printer with a shoe. When Razz returns, she’s holding a large garment bag. A tag hangs from the front—it reads “ _MARA”_ in bold black letters.

“Oh, these are”—Adora can’t help but feel the weight of what she’s being given—“these really are hers.”

Razz looks at her for a long moment, and behind those eyes, Adora can almost recognize something.

“You’re very much like my Mara, aren’t you?” Razz says, and it’s more lucid than she’s been the entire time. “Work, work, work. No one could understand.”

Adora feels frozen to the spot. “What?”

“Mmm,” she hums, searching Adora’s face, “there are more important things, you know.”

Suddenly, _violently_ , Adora is hit with a million questions for the eccentric old lady, but she can’t articulate a single one. She just gapes as Razz hands her the costume like it’s something precious, and watches the old woman wander off again. Behind her, Catra has got the printer on, but is jabbing buttons and glaring at the thing like it has personally offended her. The image snaps Adora out of her reverie, and whatever moment she’d had with Razz passes. 

She doesn’t know what to think of it, but there’s a costume to try on—that, she knows how to handle.

* * *

After several (many) threats to its life, the printer accepts her papers.

It doesn’t help that Razz had crushed them, leaving Catra to smooth them out on the rounded corner of a table that’s _covered_ in junk. Then again, _everything_ in here is covered in junk.

The printer moves at near early-90s speed. She’s going to be stuck here for a while, which is not necessarily a bad thing. _Had_ she deliberately chosen this fossil of a printer to use instead of the perfectly functional one in the box? Yes. _Is_ it because she needs a break from watching rehearsal? Absolutely. Is it _also_ because she’d enjoyed talking to Adora on the way here and now hopes to do it more? Debatable.

As the printer struggles to copy, Catra turns back to the room, and proceeds to have a minor heart attack.

There, in the middle of the veritable sea of junk, is Adora, who is holding her costume. In a sports bra and underwear.

Catra’s first reaction is to pitch a fit, but then she remembers that this is normal for theater people. She knows from experience: these people have no boundaries. She’s seen a man run completely naked through the lobby to make a cue. _That,_ however, had not bothered her as much as _this._

Well, maybe _bothered_ isn’t the right word. At least, not in the context she’s using it.

She’d already seen Adora’s arms, holding up the sword, _existing_ —but the rest of her is a different story. She’s all muscle and curves and her ass— _wow—_ and Catra is absolutely staring. She’s staring, and she needs to stop, now.

Now.

… _Now._

She turns back to the printer.

“Oh my god,” she breathes, so low only she can hear. _This is horrible_ , she thinks, unconvincingly. 

Really, it’s not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out this [AMAZING ART](https://bazaarwords.tumblr.com/post/623281515847188480/to-go-along-with-chapter-3-the-very-awesome-and) my friend did for this fic, and find his handles to follow on the post!!


	4. Chekhov's Gun

It feels weird to _want_ to go to work, but it’s not like she has any other options.

The set crew’s been in for a while, screwing and stapling away and no matter what she stuffs in her ears, the noise reverberates through the theater. The cast is on stage at one, but there are plenty of other things to do in the meantime. Things she can do now, without Weaver breathing down her neck. So she pulls on a black shirt and black jeans and slips down while the crew is on break. There is a _tiny_ bathroom the size of a broom cupboard in the booth that she uses to get ready on days when she has to sneak around like this.

The booth, however, is not empty.

“Catra! Great, you’re here!” It’s Entrapta, who is entirely too awake for nine-thirty. She pushes her huge glasses up into her hair and gestures to her side. “Have you met WH?”

“ _WH?"_ Catra asks, incredulous, because Entrapta tends to name anything she can get her hands on, and the new addition could be anything from the projector to an office chair.

It is, surprisingly, a living thing. A man peeks out from the far side of the room, over at the soundboard. He smiles and waves. Catra almost trips over herself from stepping back. He looks like Hordak. He looks _exactly_ like Hordak.

“What the hell does _WH_ stand for— _Wrong Hordak?”_

“It stands for—”

“You _do_ share an uncanny resemblance.” Entrapta gets right up in his face. He seems completely unfazed. “I’ll have to follow up on that. In the meantime— _Catra!_ Are you ready for—”

“Give me like, ten minutes to wake up,” Catra all but begs. She doesn’t know if she can deal with Entrapta on four hours of fitful sleep.

“Copy!” Entrapta trills, going right back to her computer. “WH, run cue thirty-six for me please.”

Catra slinks off into the bathroom as the noise of what sounds like gushing blood comes out of the computer speakers. She doesn’t want to know what scene Entrapta has decided needs gushing blood.

The janitor’s closet-turned-bathroom has just enough space to stand in place or sit on the toilet with your knees pressed up against the sink. It’s a claustrophobe’s worst nightmare, but Catra’s always liked small spaces. They make her feel safe, which not many other people seem to understand.

She checks her reflection in the dirty mirror. She’s just woken up, so she looks a mess. Unkempt hair, bags under her eyes, the whole nine yards—but there’s something… _lighter_ about her. She doesn’t often have time for this kind of vanity, but something’s changed in the last week of rehearsals. Something physical, even.

Weaver is still hellspawn, having Catra drag massive props around alone when Scorpia could easily help, piling on tasks like she has more than three consecutive minutes to spare, and generally being a sentient torture device. They’ve gotten through the entirety of the play, but Hordak makes it a point to keep them for long hours after rehearsal to give notes. Double Trouble runs the same numbers over and over again and the songs have attached themselves to Catra’s brain like parasites, forcing her to hum them when she least expects it.

Then, there’s Scorpia, who brings her a different sandwich every day for lunch, and a box of leftovers for dinner. There’s Lonnie, Rogelio, and Kyle, who crack jokes when Catra’s around that have her chuckling to herself when she’s alone. There are her breaks on the roof when she gets to decompress on her own and enjoy the spring air.

Of course, there’s Adora too.

It’s only been a week, and as little as Catra wants to admit it, she’s become friends with an actor.

A _very_ good-looking actor, but that’s beside the point.

After the costume fiasco, she’s managed to keep her ogling to a minimum, but having to actively pay attention to Adora’s blocking gives her an excuse to look. Not that Adora misses any of her movements, ever. Catra just has to check. It’s her _job_ , obviously.

Like usual, she ties her hair up to keep it off her neck, and brushes her teeth. It takes a few more minutes to mentally prepare herself for whatever it is Entrapta has for her.

As soon as she opens the door, Entrapta is on her.

“I have every mic prepared,” she says, shoving two hard cases into Catra’s unprepared arms. “There are a few buggy frequencies, but you’ll be able to fiddle with them down at the rack.”

“What?”

“Oh, and I’ve had WH making halos for everyone. We’ll adjust as needed. You know how to make an ear rig, right?”

“ _Entrapta,_ ” Catra snaps, taking a steadying breath before she continues. It’s too early to get angry. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Entrapta blinks like an owl. “ _Ohhh,_ you didn’t know,” she says slowly, realizing. Whatever she is about to say cannot be good. “Okay,” she begins, like she’s speaking to a child, “you are now the A2. An A2 is the onstage assistant to the A1, or audio engineer, who in this case, is WH since he is at EKS—the soundboard, of course—and will be mixing the audio for the show—”

“I know what an A2 is,” Catra says, using the exact same tone as Entrapta because she is five seconds away from _losing it_. “When, exactly, did I become the A2?”

“It was covered in the email!” Entrapta checks her phone. “Right here: “Catra will be assuming the role of A2 along with her ASM duties as per my new delegation of tasks” and then some lighting notes… oh, Emily _has_ been acting up again. I’ll have to fix those lights…”

She hadn’t gotten a fucking email.

As Entrapta gets distracted with the lighting board, Catra takes a quiet moment to imagine herself throwing Weaver into an active volcano. The image brings her such unbridled joy she can pretend that she’s not now doing the job of _five_ people rather than a much more manageable _four._

 _Things aren’t all bad_ , she says to herself, an exercise in patience. _After the show is over you can get into a fistfight with Weaver._

She really shouldn’t get into another fistfight ever again in her life, but the thought is nice.

“Entrapta,” Catra sighs, resigning herself to her fate. “Show me how to do this.”

* * *

“If you so much as touch my tater tots, I swear”—Glimmer makes a mad swipe for her—“ _Adora!"_

“I am the Tater Thief! I live on Potato Mountain and I _demand sacrifices!”_

Glimmer does _try_ to catch her, but with no gyms around Bright Moon, Adora has been running a lot lately. Tater tots in hand, she now sees the very practical benefits of doing so.

Her tot is very exciting and tasty, but so is the prospect of working on stage today. She sprints through the double doors, which reveal the empty house and the unfinished set. It’s got all of the platforms and archways they’ll be using, but things are still very much in-progress. Regardless, Adora always loves the first day on a set.

Catra’s pacing back and forth across the stage with a bag, muttering into what, upon first glance, just appears to be a long black wire, but Adora knows it to be the tiny lavaliere microphones they’ll be wearing. Catra herself is wearing the hallmark of an assistant stage manager: a single-ear headset. A long cable leads to a battery pack, clipped to her belt, and the headband makes her hair stick up in weird places, which is admittedly very cute.

Adora keeps that information to herself.

As much as Adora feels a deep need to bother Catra, she sets her things down in the house and instead watches as the woman grows increasingly agitated with her work. Eventually, she lifts her headset mic away from her mouth like it’s on fire and glares up at the booth.

“It’s not working, Entrapta! I’m replacing it!” she yells.

The booth window swings open. “No, don’t! There’s always a solution—I’ll figure it out!” The window slams shut.

Catra looks ready to throw the bag of mics. Adora watches as she takes a deep breath before noticing Adora’s presence in the aisle.

“How long have you been there?”

“Long enough to see you’ve got a new job,” Adora says, unable to keep the grin off her face. “Mic wrangler?”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Catra grumbles, setting the bag down and sitting on the edge of the stage. Adora comes over and hops up to sit beside her. “I should keep a running list of all the shit I do.”

“You really should, it looks good on a resumé.” Adora nudges her. “You want a tater tot?” Catra looks at her like she’s grown another head. The incredulity grows when Adora takes a tater tot out of the pocket of her drawstring pants, presents it to her. “It’s cold though, sorry.”

“You’re giving me a cold tater tot you had in your pocket?”

Adora nods seriously.

Catra’s expression changes, and although the crop top she’d borrowed from Bow is light and flowy, all of a sudden she feels very hot.

Catra eats the tater tot and goes back to her bag.

* * *

She can’t put a finger on it, but something has shifted.

The actors have arrived, and Hordak and Weaver are in the house at the large sheet of wood that acts as a management table. Double Trouble is leading the actors through their grating warm ups, and Catra is trying to busy herself with her laptop. She’s stationed herself far away from Hordak and Weaver, grateful for the distance being in the house provides.

The thing is, every time she looks up at the stage, she catches Adora turning her head away. She’s so blatantly obvious that it’s almost endearing.

The _other_ thing is: she doesn’t mind it. In fact, she _wants_ Adora to keep looking.

And look she does. Once they finish their warm ups, Double Trouble sends them off to get their mics, and she can feel Adora’s eyes on her again. It warms her all over, but she doesn’t meet her gaze, not with Weaver watching to see if she’s done the job she’d been given _without her knowledge._

It gets more and more satisfying each time she gets to prove the woman wrong.

She pulls the bag of mics and belts she’d previously arranged, powered on, and checked out from under her seat, sauntering to the stage to pass them out. She imagines hearing Weaver’s teeth grinding, and it is music to her ears.

The cast all go off to ready themselves, and Scorpia joins her on the stage for an extra pair of hands. She scoops up six mics in her massive arms, leaving Catra to pass out the last one. It’s Adora’s, and she receives it with an apologetic smile. Catra already knows that look: she’s going to ask her for something.

Catra raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“Can you help me with it?”

Her first impulse is to say no, because putting a halo mic on is beyond easy. It’s a piece of elastic attached to the mic wire, rigged so the mic itself rests at the actor’s hairline. It takes two seconds to do. But the second, more powerful impulse is to address that _something_ that’s shifted in the air between them and to find a spot backstage so she can help Adora. She has no self-control, so chooses the latter. Adora follows her into the wings.

“You allergic to Transpore?” Catra asks, pulling the clear, porous tape from her pocket.

“What?”

“The sticky shit you sweat right off?” Absolutely clueless. She holds up the roll in her hands. “Mic tape.” Catra sighs and tears a piece off, sticks it to the band of her watch. “How an Equity actor can be this clueless…”

“I’m not!” Adora protests, but she’s grinning like an idiot.

“Not with the union? You’re telling me I’ve been nice to you for nothing?”

“You’ve been _nice?_ What’s your definition of _mean?”_

Catra actually laughs. “You don’t want to know, Princess.”

Adora opens her mouth to respond, but Catra ends up catching the dusting of pink on her cheeks right before she turns away. Catra’s been using the nickname for a few days, and with each use, it gets more and more of a rise out of Adora. It’s her secret weapon. It’s also a level of flirtatious Catra _cannot_ think about right now, alone on backstage left with Adora.

Adora sighs, exasperated. “Are you gonna do me or not?”

“Am I gonna _what?”_ Catra chokes.

“Are you gonna— _the mic!_ Are you going to do the—you know what?” Adora turns her entire body away. “I’m not talking to you.”

This is too good. “You don’t have to talk to me, Princess, you just have to lift your shirt up.”

“Stop calling me that!” Adora whines, so flustered that instead of lifting her shirt, she ends up just flinging it off. The view, as it has in the past, gives Catra pause. “Just put it on, _please._ ”

Catra has to take a moment. It’s because of Adora’s back, she can’t lie to herself this time. 

There is no reason why she has to do all of the work for Adora, as it’s a fairly easy process, but still she finds herself wrapping the elastic belt around Adora’s waist, letting the pouch that holds the transmitter sit at her tailbone. When she attaches the velcro at Adora’s front, arms around her, she does everything in her power not to touch any part of the woman. That, however, does nothing to stifle the way Adora smells. In a word: good. Warm and comfortable, mixed with something like cinnamon or nutmeg that makes Catra yearn for a cool autumn day.

She clears her throat, pulling back. “Does that fit okay?” It is infuriating to hear the waver in her words. She tries again, more forcefully. “It’ll stretch if it’s too tight.”

“It feels fine,” Adora says, and Catra _knows_ she isn’t imagining the little hitch in her voice.

So she continues, coming around Adora’s front to fit the wire and elastic around her head. The mic capsule rests right in the middle of the pouf she wears her hair in. While securing the mic, Adora meets her eyes for a moment that stretches out a beat too long. Catra’s heart is suddenly in her throat, and she has to do something, has to speak before something—

“What do you know,” Catra says, forcing levity, “your dumb little hair pouf keeps it in place.” 

Adora laughs, and Catra uses that to go around her back again, peeling the piece of tape from her watch. She takes the wire that runs down Adora’s back, positioning it against the dip of her spine and giving it some slack before setting it in place with the tape. Adora’s laughter cuts short when she rubs the tape in place, and Catra watches as the muscles of her back tense.

It’s all so sudden that she almost, _almost_ apologizes, but then Hordak is yelling for the cast on stage, and Adora shoots her a smile over her shoulder as she rushes out and pulls her shirt back on. “Thanks Catra!” she says, like someone’s got a gun to her head.

Catra watches her go, stuck in the wings for the foreseeable future. Stuck in the dark, having to watch this show for the fiftieth time. Stuck with the extremely recent memory of Adora, shirtless and so, _so_ close.

She needs to focus. Soon, there will be about a million things she’ll have to keep track of at once, thanks to Weaver’s stellar “ _delegation of tasks_ ”, and as much as her brain tries to pull her focus back to Adora, she can’t. She _cannot_ afford to be distracted.

“How bad is it? Be honest.”

The voice snaps her out of her thoughts, and when she turns she sees Lonnie, Rogelio, and Kyle, all dressed in show blacks.

“What—”

“We’re your run crew!” Kyle announces, arms thrown in the air. “I mean, we don’t have headsets yet, but…”

Lonnie claps her on the back. “Huntara said they needed more crew, and we’re pretty much done with the build. Seems like you and Scorpia can’t actually run a whole show by yourselves.”

Catra scoffs. “Tell that to Weaver.”

“I, uh… I’d rather not talk to her. If that’s okay,” says Kyle, and for once in the three years she’s worked at the Playhouse, Catra agrees with him.

“What’s she have you doing?” Lonnie asks, and it’s like something snaps in her.

The words are leaving her mouth before she has a chance to censor her frustration.

“All the paperwork _she_ doesn’t want to do, moving every single piece of scenery myself, and now—oh, and _now_ , like, this _morning,_ she's decided that I’m the A2.” The words come out like gunfire. It’s a wonder she hadn’t said anything before this point, with all this anger boiling right under her skin. “If I ask her for help, she’s going to give me some shit like “ _This is how it works in the real world, Catra”,_ or “ _Grow up and stop complaining, Catra_ ”, or some other dumb shit.”

Rogelio sucks his teeth, disapproving. “ _Ella siempre estas hablando cabezas de pescado._ ”

“Well, we’re here now, Catra! We’ll help you!” Kyle says with a smile.

Lonnie nods, and the waves of stress Catra finally realizes she’s been drowning under through this whole production begin to recede.

An all-too foreign swell of gratitude fills up her chest. They're still here, still helping her. Even after everything she's done. She wants to thank them, but isn’t sure how. Instead, she sends them off to look for spare headsets and a table for the props, and a whopping three minutes into the play, Hordak is yelling.

_“HOLD!”_

All movement on the stage stops, and Adora drops her rehearsal sword. Her mic is on, so everyone gets to hear the soft _“Shit”_ she mutters as she picks it up.

From the wings, Catra almost gives herself license to laugh, but then Weaver’s voice is in her ear.

“ _Catra,_ ” she hisses, “where _is Mermista’s trident?”_

And the humor is gone.

By “trident” she means the old broom they’ve been using as a rehearsal prop until someone (it’ll probably be Catra) can pull a full-sized trident out of their ass.

“Shouldn’t _Mermista_ know where _Mermista’s_ trident is?” Catra murmurs to herself. She presses the button on her pack to respond. “On it.”

In reality, she shouldn’t have responded at all, because Weaver is on headset then, ripping her a new asshole for this one, tiny issue. An issue that will take thirty seconds to resolve. Through the berating, Catra’s mood sours again. Weaver _knows_ she can get away with this shit when it’s just her and Scorpia on headset. Scorpia, who is indisposed at the fly rail, and Catra, stuck with every other task.

 _Maybe things will get better with the new run crew._ It's the most hopeful thought she's had in a while, and she resists the urge to discount it completely.

She doesn’t respond as Weaver goes on, just grabs a broom from backstage and walks out to hand it to Mermista.

“Great,” Mermista drones, “an even dirtier broom.”

Catra presses the thing into her hand. “Check your props.”

* * *

Bow and Glimmer are fast asleep. Adora envies them.

They’ve ended up in Glimmer’s room, and she’s on the floor, having stolen a pillow and sheet from Glimmer’s bed. Her friends are snoring on top of each other on said bed, closer than she’s ever seen two friends sleep. And friends they are, apparently. For now, she doesn’t question it.

She hasn’t been sleeping well. Not that she _ever_ does, but she’d hoped that taking the floor and being in a room with others would help. It’s how she often had to sleep while touring shows, and she usually got good nights’ rests while on tour.

But this isn’t a touring show, and she has a brand new reason to keep her awake.

The entire day her mind has been on Catra. It’s a never-ending loop between the obnoxious butterflies in her chest and the dread in her stomach. On one hand, she can still feel Catra’s fingers on her back, pressing right into one of the most sensitive parts of her body. On the other, her anxiety rears its ugly head to remind her that she is a _professional_ and she is being paid to _act_ , not to fawn over one of the ASMs.

But Catra’s not getting any less attractive, so that’s not helpful.

It’s not like relationships don’t happen in the theater. Adora’s had her fair share of _show-mances_. Flings that last the duration of her contract, and never a moment longer. They’re always pretty lukewarm—on her first tour there had been the rigger with massive arms; back in the city, the put-upon prop master with long legs and a breathy voice; and most recently, on _Salinean Summer_ , she’d had a one-night stand with the burly house manager that ended in neither woman making eye contact for the remainder of the run.

Her track record isn’t great.

Those women hadn’t wanted much from Adora beyond a few quick romps, but she’d given so much of herself each time, and each time she’d been more and more disappointed.

 _Is it wrong to want something I don’t even have the time for?_ she muses. Her career comes first, always. _Why should anything else matter?_

That thought draws her back to her fitting with Razz. That cryptic comparison to Mara… but she’s not like Mara at all. At least, not the Mara she knows from the tabloids.

Her phone buzzes, and she almost slams her face into the ground reaching for it. She feels like an idiot. Catra may _have_ her number off the contact sheet, but it’s not like she’s just going to text her out of the blue, and in the middle of the night, no less. Even still, her heart sinks when she notices that it’s just her agent. She opens the text.

_Hope L. 12:43AM_

_Hello Adora, my apologies for the late message, I have only just received the news._

_I do not know when, although I imagine he will not be joining the other critics, but Prime is coming._

_Please be aware._

_\- Hope_

Adora doesn’t sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, thanks to osmrice and golari for being amazing but also thanks to gaby for ur help—this chapter title is for u
> 
> also thank YOU GUYS for the comments and kudos! it really means a lot! :))
> 
> [i'm on on tumblr too](https://bazaarwords.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [find the ongoing glossary here](https://bazaarwords.tumblr.com/post/622958274072969216/a-very-long-theater-glossary)


	5. Act Two: Anagnorisis

Scorpia is not having a very good time.

It’s a first, as far as Catra can tell, because she’s never seen the woman act any less than _totally jazzed_ about… anything and everything. She’s a bumbling ball of butch benevolence, and Catra will never verbally admit that she appreciates the woman’s friendship so long as she lives.

Catra’s always been an _acts_ of service kind of person, anyway. Words are hard.

“What’s wrong?” she deadpans, because it’s ten in the morning, and it takes a lot of energy to speak at all.

Scorpia has been pacing the aisles while Huntara and her crew of large, terrifying women have the stage. They’ll be done by the time tech week starts, but Catra has never really been able to conceptualize just how quickly the shop crew can build and put up a set, so she’s been watching for a while, content to just let Scorpia go through whatever it is she’s going through.

Except… Scorpia’s behavior is starting to concern her. It's another feeling she’ll never willingly confess to.

“Scorpia,” she tries again, realizing Scorpia hasn’t responded. “ _Scorpia!”_

“Ah!” the woman yelps, and the booklet in her hands goes flying. “Oh—hah— _Catra._ Wow, you sure know how to sneak up on a gal!”

“I’ve been here for ten minutes.”

“Oh! Well then… you sure know how to… stand very quietly!” She grabs her booklet from the floor. “Sorry, I, uh… I’ve got to…” Whatever it is she’s about to say gets lost once she finds her page, and she sets right back to pacing and muttering to herself.

Catra takes the length of the aisle in five long strides and yanks the booklet out of Scorpia’s hands.

“Hey! Catra, I need that!”

“‘ _Theatrical Fly Rigging Systems:’,”_ Catra reads, dodging Scorpia as she makes a grab for it. “‘ _Single- and Triple-Point Harnesses.’_ We’re flying today?”

Scorpia successfully manages to grab the booklet. She’s much faster than she looks. “Yes,” she says, almost dejected once she’s got it back, “and then... every single day until the show closes.”

Catra is suddenly equal parts worried and confused. “You’re certified… right?”

“Yes, of course! I have _three_ certifications! I know the ins and outs of, well, of just about every kind of fly system there is! I had to take the first course twice, but I keep up with everything, you know?” Catra can feel the word vomit rising even before Scorpia _really_ begins. “It’s just, I keep worrying I’m going to mess everything up! _Ah_ , who am I kidding? There’s _always_ potential to mess things up, but this show’s important. P—uh, _people_ are counting on me! You know how it feels, don’t you Wildcat?”

The nickname slaps Catra right across the face, but before she can protest it or its origin, Scorpia is barreling on.

“I can’t let P—uh, _people_ down, you know? I _can’t_. I know that I am strong and loyal and I give great hugs, sure, but is that going to keep disaster from striking at any moment? No! I can’t hug a harness and tell it not to fail! I mean, I—I _have,_ and I could again, but I really don’t think that’ll work! I can’t—”

“ _Scorpia!_ Scorpia. Calm down. Take a breath.” Scorpia complies. Feeling a little out of her depth, Catra continues, “You know your stuff— _don’t answer_ , just nod.” Scorpia does. “Three certifications is more than any rigger we’ve _ever_ had here. You’ve done this before, right?”

Scorpia opens her mouth to respond— _at length_ , probably—but noting Catra’s expression, she just nods.

“Then there’s nothing to worry about,” she says, and the moment it leaves her mouth, she realizes that it sounds too dismissive. She clears her throat and tries again. “You’re dependable, Scorpia. You’ll do a good job.”

Catra knows she should have the forethought to prepare for the bone-crushing hug, but she doesn’t. Scorpia lifts her right off the ground like she weighs absolutely nothing, and proceeds to smush their faces together. It's entirely too much contact, but Catra can't _move_ , so. She's out of options. She lets it happen.

“You know you’re the best, Wildcat! You really know how to cheer a gal up!” she says, squeezing Catra like she’s a tube of toothpaste. “I know Perfuma won’t hate me if I just do my best!”

When Scorpia finally sets her down, Catra catches her breath. Objectively, she knows Perfuma is the only one flying in the show, thanks to the _plant golem_ scene Catra does everything in her power to avoid watching. Scorpia is very bad at hiding intent, and in a moment of terrible clarity, Catra realizes that the two of them have more in common than she’d ever thought.

However, that doesn’t change the fact that Scorpia needs to—

“Stop calling me _Wildcat._ ”

Scorpia winks at her, running off to the fly rail to get things tested. “No promises!”

* * *

Adora is not having a very good time.

She feels like she’s been reheated in the microwave, jittery from too much coffee and too little sleep.

She’s been pacing around the kitchen since five in the morning, unable to get more than fifteen consecutive minutes of rest. It’s half-past six now, still too early for anyone else to be up—not even the sun has risen. She’s usually out for a run at eight. If she’s out too early the brisk morning air does a number on her lungs, and she can’t take that risk with ten hours of singing and projecting her voice ahead.

“Adora?” comes a voice from behind.

She whirls around, almost spilling cold coffee from the mug she’s white-knuckled to her chest. “Angella! Hey—uh, good morning!”

The older woman is standing at the foot of the staircase, already clad in a smart cream-colored pantsuit. Adora feels like a hobgoblin or a bridge troll in her ratty pajamas.

“You’re up early,” Angella says, a casual observation. “Have you eaten breakfast?” Adora holds up her coffee cup sheepishly. Angella seems to understand. “It seems we have quite a bit in common.”

Angella comes down to the kitchen, rummaging around in the fridge. She offers up a bowl of overnight oats (Micah’s doing, apparently) and a yogurt, and Adora’s empty stomach begs her to say yes. They sit at the kitchen island in silence, Adora with her cold coffee and simple breakfast, and Angella with hot tea and a sliced apple.

“How have rehearsals been?” Angella asks after a long moment, sipping her tea.

Adora can almost hear the unspoken _“for you”_ in the question. She’s sure Angella has heard about how they’ve been in _general_ , or from Bow or Glimmer’s perspectives.

“Fun!” she says, but even though they have indeed been fun, the response sounds hollow to her own ears. She clarifies, “I mean, all shows come with a little stress, but I’ve been enjoying the process.”

It sounds very tame, not revealing even a fraction of the full truth. She’s not about to let her employer know how massively stressed she’s been, or how little she’s sleeping, or how she feels about a certain crew member—

“Hordak is… not one for conversation. Double Trouble, however, has nothing but glowing praise.”

Adora meets her eyes. “Really?” she says, incredulous. Praise is overwhelming from anyone, but from _Double Trouble?_ Adora ventures, “What—um. What did they say?”

The corner of Angella’s mouth turns up. _Fuck_ , _now she’s going to think I’m some kind of self-centered diva—_

“That you’re a true professional. That you’ve absolutely earned your Equity card.” The praise lands on her like a weighted blanket, and her heart rate slows. “I’m inclined to believe them.”

She’s not good with compliments, but she’d worked so hard for so many years to rack up enough experience to get that card, so she smiles at Angella, and it’s apparently a satisfactory response, because Angella smiles back.

They finish breakfast in comfortable silence, and then Angella is readying herself to leave for a board meeting when she turns to Adora from the front door, keys in hand. Her expression is hard to read. Pensive, maybe, if Adora had to place it.

Angella takes a breath. “I’m available if you ever… if you need to talk.” She opens the door and gives Adora a smile. “We’re all so happy to have you here. I hope you are as well.”

And she’s gone.

Adora doesn’t know how to take the parting sentiment, so she goes for her run instead. It doesn’t alleviate her exhaustion, but it does help clear her mind. The morning air is cool, but not cold, and the sun is out. When she gets back to the house, she takes a cold shower, and is mostly sentient when Bow and Glimmer clamber out of the bedroom for breakfast.

Bow’s dressed, but Glimmer is rumpled and zombie-like, attempting to pour cereal into a bowl. Half of it lands on the table. She squints at Adora. “I’m still mad at you about my tater tots. I know you took more than one.”

“Yeah, but I only _ate_ one.”

Glimmer looks about as scandalized as someone who’s half-asleep can look. “Did you _throw away_ my tots? You _animal.”_

Adora can’t help but laugh. “I would _never._ I gave the other one to Catra.”

Glimmer is suddenly, completely awake. She looks at Bow, equal parts panic and concern. Whatever joking mirth they’d been exchanging is gone from the room, and the anxiety from earlier in the morning rams its way back into Adora’s chest, making her woozy.

Bow, ever the peacekeeper, is the one to speak. “Yeah… we’ve seen you hanging out with her. We’re—I’m glad you’re making friends!”

This really has been going on for too long. She doesn’t do it often, but each time she brings Catra up, the two of them get cagey and strange. While Adora thoroughly appreciates their friendship, she’s allowed to make other friends. She’s an adult, and they’re all colleagues. Her thoughts are her own—she’s not _doing_ anything inappropriate, neither is Catra, and since no one will tell her about whatever has happened in the past, it’s been a vicious cycle of _this._

“Why don’t you guys like her?” She’s said it before she can think about it. She doesn’t have all the details, she doesn’t _know_ anything. But she needs to if she’s ever going to make any informed decisions on the subject.

“It’s not that—” Bow tries.

“It kind of is,” Glimmer interrupts. It earns her a frown. “What? It kind of is!”

“Look, it’s _not_ that we don’t like her,” Bow says, more to Glimmer than Adora. Glimmer rolls her eyes and takes a bite of cereal. “It’s just… she’s been really… challenging to work with in the past.”

“Really _confrontational,_ ” Glimmer supplies.

Bow ignores her and continues. “I think people deserve second chances. But it doesn’t change the past, you know?”

“But I don’t even—” Adora stops herself. They’ve gone down this road already. Bow doesn’t want to talk about it. Fine. “I just… we’ve been getting along, just like I have with you two. With the rest of the cast.” She searches for the right words. “I don’t… I know this sounds _stupid_ , but I don’t want any drama.”

“That’s just the theater, isn’t it?” Glimmer says with a sigh. “No one wants drama, but we’re all making it.” She finishes her cereal, and pins Adora with a look. “I’ve never gotten along with Catra—I _don't_ like her. But I also won’t pretend to know her whole story. Just… take care of yourself, okay?”

Adora wants to bite back, but the sincerity is clear. She just nods, gives the two of them a tight smile. These are good people, she knows, but so is Catra. She’s a little rougher around the edges, but there’s something good there, something Adora desperately wants to uncover.

She thinks about it the whole way to the theater and all the way up until she’s backstage, asking for Catra’s help again.

“The wire was moving around a lot yesterday,” she explains as Catra readies her mic pack. “I think I sweat the tape off.”

“ _Shocker,_ ” Catra says, as she hands Adora her mic belt. Adora tries not to let the disappointment show on her face. She’d hoped Catra might put it on her again. “I thought it might happen. You seem like the sweaty type.”

Adora scoffs. “What gave you _that_ impression?”

“I just get that vibe from you, you know?”

“That _vibe?_ _What vibe?”_

“It’s a _sweaty_ kinda vibe”—Catra waves her hands around, looking for the words—“like you’ve got this _sweaty aura._ Like, at any moment you’ll just start _sweating_.”

Adora purses her lips. She’s trying _so hard_ to hold it in. “Oh, yeah?” she fires back, and her voice pitches up at the end embarrassingly. Fuck, she’s not doing well. “You think I’m sweaty right now?”

“Oh, I _know_ you’re sweaty right now.”

As if directed by the gay gods above, Adora’s hand reaches forward and grabs Catra’s wrist. It is. _So bad_ of her. But she does it. She grabs Catra’s wrist and she puts it right on the side of her neck. The moment Catra’s (surprisingly warm) rough hand is on her skin, on this _really sensitive_ part of her body, Adora feels her soul leaving her.

The angel on her shoulder says, _“Adora, this is your colleague. You mustn’t act in this way. Please release her, and return to your duties.”_

The devil on her shoulder says, _“God, she’s got some nice fucking fingers, huh? Heh, get it? Fucking fingers?”_

And she’s about to apologize profusely, about to knock the devil on her shoulder so far into the recesses of her mind that she will _never_ think another thought like that again, but she realizes that Catra hasn’t moved. She’s just staring at her, hand on her neck, and Adora is struck with the sudden, unbearable memory of a dream she’d had during a fitful nap. A hand— _this_ very hand—at her neck, no pressure, just there.

 _Did you just_ forget _that you’re really into this? What kind of idiot—_

“See?” Adora says, wrestling herself free of her thoughts. Her voice is hoarse. “Not sweaty.”

* * *

Catra had always thought she’d already hit the gay threshold.

Like, she’d always assumed there was a limit to how gay she could be. Now? Now, she’s not so sure. The limit doesn’t exist anymore.

Her hand is still on the side of Adora’s neck, where Adora herself had put it. Adora’s looking at her like she’s been caught with her hand in the proverbial cookie jar, and Catra can’t stop looking back. Is this what it feels like to be a deer in headlights? _Are there deer this gay?_

Adora’s hand is still on her wrist, strong but not persistent, calloused in a way that an actor's hands shouldn’t be. Or maybe Catra just doesn’t know actors like she thinks she does.

The _something_ that had been in the air yesterday is stronger than ever, only this time, Catra knows exactly what it is. She knows exactly what’s happening, and it’s like watching a plane crash in real time. There’s a difference between just finding someone objectively attractive versus actively wanting to do something about it.

This is the first time she will admit that to herself, but she already knows it has to be the last. She can _not_ afford to fuck up again. This—whatever _this_ is—cannot extend past this moment.

Catra draws her hand away. “Well what do you know?” She tries for flippant, but it comes across strained. “Not sweaty.”

She catches Adora’s expression as it crumbles, but busies herself with looking for the fancy mic tape in her pockets—it’s wound dressing, actually, but it works the same.

“I told you,” Adora jokes, but it’s weak. Her voice quivers. Catra hates to hear it.

There’s too much happening, too much tension crackling in the air between them, but Catra has a job to do. She secures Adora’s wire against her back, ignoring the way her muscles tense again, ignoring the silence as they go through the motions, ignoring the way her heart feels about ready to beat out of her chest.

“You’re good to go,” she says, and leaves before Adora can respond.

There are so many things to do, so many distractions she can throw herself into. So she tries. She finds Lonnie, Rogelio, and Kyle at the prop table, and she uses every ounce of willpower she has to be their supervisor and not the disaster she’s become. Lonnie and Rogelio are leant over Kyle as he messes with something in his hands.

“What are you guys doing?”

“Ow!” Kyle yelps, a sudden movement jostling whatever he’s working on. He waves his injured hand around.

Rogelio snorts with laughter. “ _Cojudo._ ” He takes the object from Kyle. It’s a headset, in several pieces it very much shouldn't be in.

“Kyle broke his headset,” Lonnie says with a humorless smile. “How? No one seems to know. Not even _Kyle._ ”

“It was so sudden! I—I don’t—”

“Kyle, shut up,” Catra says. She’s not in the mood. “Look, I need two of you to go up to storage.” She hands them one of Weaver’s endless supply of to-do lists—this time, it’s all _seventy-six_ props for the show. “Preferably Kyle and someone to supervise Kyle. We should have everything up there.”

Rogelio frowns down at the list, then at Kyle. He jerks his head to the side. “ _Vamos,_ ” he says, and they leave. It’s one thing Catra appreciates about Rogelio—he gets things done.

Lonnie looks her up and down. “You look like shit.”

It catches her off-guard. “Butter me up all you want, you’re still sweeping the stage tonight.”

Lonnie holds her hands up in defense, smirking. “I’m just making an observation,” she says. Her eyebrows knit together. “Weaver up your ass again?”

“When is she _not?_ ” Catra grumbles. But Lonnie’s _asking_. She’s really asking how Catra is. That’s not easy to digest, not after what she’s done—who she’s _been_. Catra concedes. “It’s not her... at the moment. There’s just… a lot.”

Lonnie nods slowly. She seems unsure of what to say, but she claps Catra on the shoulder with all the force of a sledgehammer. “You’ve got the three of us,” she begins, “and Scorpia. We’ve got this.”

It’s no-frills, straight to the point, and just like Lonnie. It doesn’t change the emotions rolling in Catra’s chest, but the sentiment doesn’t go unnoticed.

So Catra gives her a small smile. It’s not easy. “Thanks Lonnie.”

Lonnie gives her shoulder a friendly squeeze, and then she’s off, getting herself ready for rehearsal.

On stage, Double Trouble is clapping for everyone’s attention. “Friends, Romans, countrymen! Get your butts out!” _Clap._ “Here!” _Clap clap._ “Right now!”

The cast trickles out onto the stage. Catra watches them congregate from the wings. She tries not to shift her attention to Adora when she takes her place in the circle, but the moment she comes into view, Catra’s eyes betray her. Whatever flimsy walls she’d managed to put up after their backstage fiasco are decimated with one traitorous glance she inadvertently sends Adora’s way.

She has no right. No _right_ to look the way she does.

Hordak joins the group onstage. “As you all should be aware of, next week is tech week.”

Then, like a cloud of malice, Weaver emerges into Catra’s field of vision, sidling up to Hordak. She scans the stage, eyes falling directly on Catra. She beckons her over with her whole, scary hand, like a monkey’s paw closing around her soul. There’s commotion from above and Catra knows it’s Scorpia, clambering down from the fly rail in a rush.

“Your ASMs”—Weaver gestures to them like they’ve crawled out of a trash can—“will begin line notes today. Make sure you are memorized.” It sounds like a threat, but that’s just how most of Weaver’s sentences are.

There are some grumbles from the cast, and when Catra looks to the group, her eyes instantly find Adora’s. It is infuriating in the kind of way that makes her skin itch and her heart hammer.

Weaver goes on, “Scorpia will have Frosta, Mermista, Sea Hawk, and Perfuma. Catra will have Bow, Glimmer, and Adora. See them after rehearsal for your notes.”

_Oh, for fuck’s sake—_

Scorpia makes a noise like a rusty door hinge beside her, and it is that sound that carries them into hell.

Catra imagines—between running to check mic battery levels, making sure her crew is where they need to be, and listening to the _three actors with the most lines—_ what it would be like to have seven hands and fifteen eyes. If she had extra appendages she could manage the work, no problem.

Here’s the problem. No matter how many times she checks, she’s only got _two fucking hands_ and _two fucking eyes._

What’s worse? What is _worse_ is that in her lulls between mic checks and sprinting from one side of backstage to the other, she has to stand, motionless in the wings, and watch Adora. She has to stand there, and watch the woman that she is trying to distance herself from. She has to listen to her sing and monologue, and she really shouldn’t _have_ to, because Adora has been memorized since day—

“…and there are dark forces at work. We will face the army… we—we will… T-the threat remains!”

Catra freezes, a large prop shield pinned to her chest with a forearm, a chalice and some stray arrows in one hand, phone and new batteries in the other, and a pencil between her teeth. Adora knows this line. Adora knows _every_ line. With her only unoccupied finger—her pinky—Catra scrolls through the script on her phone.

Adora’s forgotten the entire monologue. It’s not like she doesn’t have her fair share of long, wordy passages, but she’s known this one for a full week. She’s nailed it every time, like she nails everything else. She doesn’t have time to be shocked because Kyle has done _something_ wrong, and she has to address _that_ , write down Adora’s mistake, and make a beeline for the rack when Mermista’s mic cuts out in the middle of her and Sea Hawk’s rock ballad.

“ _HOLD!”_ Hordak roars from the audience, and Catra all but collapses, out of breath.

Weaver is instantly in her ear again. “ _Catra, you—_ ”

She jams the button to respond with her free hand. “I _know._ ” And she’s hauling ass onstage with fresh batteries.

“No, I _love_ singing with no mic—”

“Don’t start,” Catra hisses, as she shoves new batteries into Mermista’s transmitter.

She’s off the stage before her brain can remind her to look at Adora for the eightieth time. As soon as she steps foot into the wings, Weaver gets on the god mic, her horrible voice echoing through the theater, and calls for a ten minute break. This time, Catra really does collapse in a dark corner backstage.

“ _Adora,_ ” Weaver’s echoey voice continues, “ _please report to the costume shop._ ”

For a stupid moment, Catra thinks that Adora will come and ask for her company again.

She doesn’t.

Catra hates herself for hoping.

* * *

“Mara dearie!”

Walking into the costume shop is so disorienting that for a long moment, Adora’s pent-up anxiety takes a backseat. The shop is somehow even worse than it had been a week before, and if someone had told her that she’d just walked into an episode of _Hoarders_ back _then,_ she wouldn’t have questioned it. Now, it’s like there’s been several large explosions of fabric where there had once been piles of clothes. Come to think of it, the clothes are probably under the fabric.

She’s heard Razz, though she can’t see her. “Razz?” she calls. “Where are you?”

She can just barely make out Razz’s head popping out from behind a mountain of fabric. “Adora! Come in, come in!”

“You needed me?”

“Yes, yes, I need to do your fitting!” Razz bumbles out into the very narrow walkway. “You’ve grown, haven’t you?”

“Razz, you—uh, you did my fitting?”

“Not your _first_ fitting! Dearie, you’ve got to keep your ears open, you know. That’s what acting is— _listening._ ” Razz comes right up to her, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. She squints up at Adora, suddenly serious. “Ah, but you need more than a fitting.”

Just like the first time, Razz succeeds in instantly throwing her for a loop. “Wait, what—” But the old woman is already walking away. “What do you mean?”

“You need a slice!” She holds up a pie tin, and the pie inside is untouched. It looks delicious, but Adora has come to find that looks can be deceiving in the costume shop. Also, there are mice. “I’ll find you a plate.”

“Uh, okay, but what about my fitting—”

“ _Aha!”_ Razz finds a plate. From where? Who knows. “Come here, sit! I don’t think I have forks, but that’s what hands are for!”

Adora has had too stressful of a day to argue. Behind a smaller hill of clothes is a clean table and two stools. It’s out of place in the sea of chaos, but it makes sense that Razz needs _some_ space to work. Adora can’t fathom getting anything done in here.

She sits and Razz serves them both a slice of pie. It looks to be some kind of berry, and the taste is admittedly a bit odd, but in the same kind of way Razz is. It’s not bad at all.

“This is really good, Razz.”

“Mmm, but you’re not.” Adora chokes on the pie. Razz is staring at her. “You are hiding. But Razz knows, oh yes. You are not very good at hiding, Mara.”

“I’m not—”

“My Mara was the same, you know.” Razz nods to herself and takes a chunk of pie, staining her fingers purple. She looks down at her hands then, and there’s a sadness there that Adora can’t even begin to unpack. “She never wanted any help.”

A memory resurfaces—the headline of a magazine at the grocery store: “ _Theater Legend In Rehab!”_ Months later, at a newsstand: “ _Mara: Violent and Exposed._ ” There had been so many at the time. Others had filled in the blanks with rumors, but the truth that the world received had been clear: this once-beloved star had a dark side.

But the way Razz talks about her…

“What happened?” Adora asks, gentle as she can. “To Mara?”

Razz blinks owlishly at her, like she’s waking from a dream. She hops out of her chair, upending her slice of pie. She wipes her hands on a scrap of glittery fabric from a pile. “Oh, but your _fitting!_ Adora, you should have said something, tsk tsk tsk.”

Either Razz is deliberately avoiding this avenue of conversation, or this is just how her mind works.

“Here, I have your costume!” She comes back with the garment bag, still labeled with Mara’s name. The way Razz cares for this... It’s like nothing else in this mess of a shop. Adora can’t bring herself to ask if she can write her own name. “Go, go! Try it now!”

Before, it had fit surprisingly well, but Razz had seen something to fix. This time, when Adora unzips the bag—

“Razz, this is…”

“For you.”

It’s clear that Mara’s costume had been the starting point, but Razz has made alterations—to the sigil on her chest, to the short cape around her waist, to the leggings and gauntlets. When Adora puts it on, it feels so much more like a piece of herself than the previous iteration. It fits like a second skin. Moving is effortless—there are no loose pieces or troublesome seams, she just _wears it._ She’s never worn a costume _this_ comfortable. It almost doesn’t feel like one.

Through the mirror, Adora notices Razz nodding.

“This one is you,” she says. She tugs on the cape, adjusts one of the gauntlets and stands back again. “You are like my Mara, yes. But you are different. You can ask for help, before it is too late.”

“What… what am I supposed to ask for help for? I’m fine. I can do this.”

“You _can_ , yes, but why?” Razz peers up at her, and it feels like she’s looking right into her soul. “Why do you have to feel like this?”

A lump forms in her throat. In her mind, she sees her series of blunders onstage today, feels her lack of sleep, the worry from Prime’s future review, and what she did to Catra earlier. Deeper still: the years of nonstop work, dozens of superficial “friendships” she doesn’t have time to improve, the fact that she’s never been in a relationship, that she’s never really had anyone to lean on but herself—

She’s crying. She only notices when Razz hands her a discarded scarf from atop a pile of clothes.

“You do not have to be alone, Adora,” she says with that rare, crystal-clear lucidity. “There is more to life than work.” With that, she turns immediately back to her piles of clothes. “Now get out of here, silly!”

Adora changes back into her outfit and walks back to the stage, far away from herself.

When she gets back, everyone’s gone to lunch. The theater is empty, save for the sound of their lighting _and_ sound designer, Entrapta, bustling around in the production booth.

Adora isn’t hungry, she finds, and she chooses to sit on the edge of the stage, letting the stillness calm her.

There’s the sound of footsteps behind her, but she doesn’t register them until a voice joins them.

“Adora?”

She blinks twice, looks up. It’s Catra, and she looks more concerned than she’s seen her yet. She’s only known the woman for a little over a week, and somehow it’s plain to see that not many people get to see this expression. Catra herself looks conflicted.

Adora gives her the most sincere smile she can muster. “Hey.”

Catra’s eyes wander over her face. It’s intense, just like all that’s happened today—her fuck ups, the news Adora can’t forget about, and that moment backstage. Catra looks away, and Adora feels the weight on her chest press down.

“Come on,” Catra says, not looking at her, “come with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, big thanks to golari, osmrice and all y'all for the sweet comments and dope kudos <3


	6. Intermission

The entire way to the roof, Catra curses herself.

The excuse she can give is that she’s trying to do better—to _be_ better. Adora is a colleague and she needs a helping hand, that’s all. It’s not much to offer, but the roof helps Catra think. Maybe it’ll do the same for Adora.

A warm breeze washes over them as Catra shoulders the rusty access door open. She holds it for Adora, and they walk out into the blinding afternoon. Adora looks around, with Catra watching from a few feet behind. Whatever demons had been eating at her downstairs are still all over her face, but at the very least, she looks interested in the change of scenery.

“What are we doing up here?” Adora asks.

Catra shrugs. “It’s a nice place.”

“…There’s bird shit everywhere.”

“It’s a _roof.”_ A bird lands a few feet away. “Look, a bird.”

“So _that’s_ where it’s coming from.”

Catra rolls her eyes. “I brought you up here because you looked _mopey._ I guess that’s just your face.” Whatever humor their short banter had provided slips right off Adora’s face. _Shit._ “I mean…”

“It’s okay,” Adora says, but Catra isn’t entirely sure if it is _._ “Thank you for the concern.”

Thirty seconds and she’s already managed to fuck up? Is this a new personal record? “Look, I—”

“I’m sorry,” Adora blurts, her expression wild, “for earlier. That was _totally_ out of line—”

A bark of laughter explodes from Catra’s chest. “Adora, you _really_ have to stop apologizing.”

“But I… isn’t that _really_ why you brought me up here?” Adora questions, like she's already figured everything out.

“I just _told_ you why I brought you up here. You looked…” There has to be a better word. “Sad.” _Great job, dumbass. Try again._ “Or… like you needed someone to talk to.”

The words feel clunky and uncertain in her mouth. Adora looks at her, _really_ looks at her, like Catra’s just handed her something small and delicate. Something flutters in her chest, weak enough to elude scrutiny. Adora smiles at her, and the thing grows.

“I think... I’d like that,” Adora says slowly, sounding just as unsure. It’s honestly relieving, not being alone in uncertainty.

They sit on one of the pieces of machinery scattered around the roof. This particular one is Catra’s favorite—it doesn’t burn her ass on sunny days. She has no idea what it is, or even if anyone should be sitting on it, but their options are limited up here.

Catra isn’t sure how to start. Her plan had been to bring Adora up here. After that, she’s got nothing, and Adora doesn’t seem inclined to start the conversation. Maybe sitting in silence will do her good. Maybe it’s what they both need. But Catra can’t help but feel a little stupid for offering this when she can’t think of one damn thing to say. She jams her hands in her pockets.

One hand finds a jumble of wires, and an idea forms. She pulls her earbuds out, connects them to her phone, and offers Adora one. Adora puts it in her ear and scoots closer, a hair’s breadth away. She’s close enough for Catra to smell her… perfume? Detergent? Whatever it is, it’s still just as warm and distracting as it had been before. “What are we listening to?”

Catra forces her focus away from the way Adora smells. “Dumpster smashing tunes.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Dumpster smashing tunes,” she repeats. In the answering silence, Catra smirks at her phone. “You’ve never climbed in a dumpster to smash shit?”

She’s still searching for the album, but she can feel Adora’s eyes on her. When she looks, Adora’s face says something like _“I’ve just won the lottery”_ or _“I have a coupon for free breadsticks"_ but Adora says neither of those things. Instead, it’s a reverent: “You can do that?” 

Does this woman live under a rock? _“Yeah,_ you can do that. You… you _are_ from this planet, right? You’re not like, an alien, here to do musicals and ask dumb questions?”

“Just because I don’t go dumpster diving doesn’t mean I’m an _alien_.” There’s a smile there. “I just… didn’t know you could do that…”

“It’s not dumpster _diving,_ it’s dumpster _smashing,_ you _philistine._ ” Catra neglects to mention that it is _also_ a viable outlet when she’s reached her fistfight quota for the week and is still _very angry._

Adora gapes at her, but the corners of her mouth twitch up. _“Philistine?”_ She scoffs and holds her hand up to her ear like it’s a phone. “Hello, Oscar Wilde? Yeah, I think one of your characters is here with me—”

Catra shoves her. “My _god,_ actors are insufferable,” she says, but she’s grinning, and so is Adora. She turns back to her phone, finding the album. “Here, you want modern, you _slattern?”_

“That’s even _worse—OW!”_ Adora rips the earbud out of her ear. “God, you’re going to go deaf! You’re going to go _deaf_ , Catra, that’s so _loud._ ”

“Oh, _please_.” She turns the volume down, and jams the thing back in Adora’s ear, much to the other woman’s displeasure.

The volume seems manageable for Adora’s fragile baby ears now, and they listen to the driving double kick drum and heavily distorted guitar of The Horde’s seminal hit—

“ _Slime Pig_ should have won Song of the Year—”

“ _Excuse_ me?” Adora takes the earbud out, and looks at Catra like she’s grown another head. “Did you just say _Slime Pig?_ Did you say _Slime Pig_ to me?”

“Are you not listening to the lyrics?” Catra can’t growl like The Horde’s lead singer, but she tries to. _“The liquid belongs—TO SLIME PIG!”_ Adora stares for all of two seconds before she doubles over laughing, but Catra’s not done. _“You want to dive into—THE SLIME PIT!”_

By the time Catra finishes the chorus, Adora has rolled over onto the ground, red in the face, gasping for breath, tears leaking out of the corners of her eyes. Objectively, Catra knows how stupid the lyrics are, but it’s more Adora’s reaction that gets her laughing too.

 _“Stop!”_ Adora wheezes, clutching her ribs. “I can’t—”

_"Steal the slime! Steal the slime!"_

Adora wails, hands covering her beet-red face, still on the ground.

“You’re gonna get bird shit all over yourself,” Catra says between guffaws.

“I— _hah—_ I can’t _breathe!"_

So she lets Adora recover where she is, only noticing that she herself is still smiling when her cheeks begin to hurt. The actor catches her breath, looking up at a sky that matches her eyes, spent. Catra watches her, and can’t remember the last time she’s felt this light.

“You good there, Princess?”

Adora’s head flops over, and she grins, wide and dopey and Catra feels that thing in her chest swell with something she refuses to name. “Slime pig,” Adora whispers, and snorts to herself. “I can’t believe you made me listen to a song called _Slime Pig._ ”

“You were the one that wanted to hear The Horde. Didn’t think you’d be able to handle it.” She smirks down at Adora. “Guess I was right.”

Adora props herself up on her elbows, aghast. “I can handle it! I’m just—this is just me… getting over the initial shock. Give me another one.” She hops up, sitting even closer this time, giving Catra a heart attack. “I can take it.”

Catra’s whole body heats up. Nothing about this situation is seductive in any form, but something about the combination of their proximity, the words, and that growing something in her chest makes her skin feel too tight.

There is, of course, a much more rational explanation. It’s been a long time since she’s been with anyone. It’s due, in large part, to the fact that no one in this godforsaken town wants to get within ten feet of her. Honestly, after the kind of person she’s been, she can’t blame them. But here’s Adora, barreling through all of those preconceptions and biases others have against her, ignorant of the past. Here’s Adora, making stupid jokes and smiling at her like she’s never hurt a fly, like she’s never done anything wrong. Here’s Adora, being a friend. It seems, now, after months of groveling and begging and pleading, that Catra has other friends, but not to actively offend Scorpia or Lonnie or Rogelio or… well, maybe to offend Kyle, but none of them are this _attractive._

She queues up a track from _Imp_ , something with a much tamer title and slower tempo. Adora bobs her head to the beat. They sit like that for a long while, eating up their lunch break without eating. It’s comfortable, something Catra hasn’t been in ages.

Finally, she checks the time on her phone, and the comfort is gone. Catra sighs, almost surprised at how disappointing it is to say, “I’ve gotta go.”

Adora has the audacity to _pout._ “We haven’t heard the whole album,” she whines.

“We don’t have _three hours_. I mean, maybe _you_ do, but Shadow—but _Weaver_ will toss me off this roof if I’m late.”

“ _Shadow_ Weaver?” Adora chuckles. “That’s kind of corny.”

“Too bad. She doesn’t deserve a better one.”

Adora frowns, more thoughtful than upset. “Is she really that bad?”

“You don’t know the _half_ of it.”

Adora's tone is serious. “…You know you can report any misconduct, Catra. Your boss shouldn’t make you _miserable._ ”

 _I deserve it, though._ She ignores that, frowns at herself. “It’s fine.” This conversation is straying in the _wrong_ direction. Can’t they go back to _Slime Pig?_ “It’s just work.”

She’s not looking at Adora, but she can feel those eyes on her. She avoids eye contact when Adora asks, “How long have you been an ASM?”

The question stings, but before Catra can retort, she has to remind herself that Adora doesn’t know, or that if she does, she hasn’t been told the full story. No one knows Catra’s side of things. No one’s ever cared to ask. 

“Too long,” she says, and means it.

She leaves Adora like that, too afraid to continue. The entire way down from the roof, Catra curses herself again, and remembers exactly what she can’t bring herself to recount.

~

_Catra walks into the theater in a daze._

_On two hours of sleep, she might as well be walking through mud. Someone says her name, but she can’t be sure who. She doesn’t care. There’s work to do. There’s no time._

_She writes her name on the sign-in sheet. She writes the time. One in the morning._

_The bare-bones lighting crew is already on stage. Someone is cleaning_ _lenses_ _, and Rogelio is assembling lights. He makes a stupid mistake, and she hears him grumble, “_ La reputa que te parió…” _as she passes by. Idiot._

 _There’s an empty_ _one-person lift_ _and a huge sheet of paper—the_ _lighting plot_ _—on a table. Someone else says her name, but she’s already hopping in the lift before someone can tell her what to do_ again. _She’s not a fucking child, she knows this theater better than anyone. Better than any of these idiots with their thumbs up their asses, waiting around for someone to tell them what to do._

_“Catra!”_

_“What?” she snaps. She’s twenty-five feet in the air and lifting the light to its pipe. It’s heavy, it’s late, and the asshole that wants to yell at her better have a damn good reason—_

_“That light’s supposed to be a_ _par_ _!”_

 _“No, it’s not!”_ Idiot, _she thinks,_ there aren’t any pars downstage left. _“Look at the plot!”_

_She knows she’s right. She shouldn’t have to humor any of them. “I’m looking,” he calls, “it’s the only one downstage left!”_

_She sets the light down in the lift, blinks the bleariness from her vision, and grips the rail so tightly the metal groans in her hands. She looks down. She can see him better now. It’s the head usher—Joe or Moe or whatever, she doesn’t give a shit— that’s usually attached to the hip of that angry, short girl in the box that she can’t_ stand. _The part of her brain that’s still functioning at just over half-capacity reminds her that that girl is the daughter of the Playhouse’s owners, and it’s exactly that kind of pervasive nepotism that’ll be the nail in her coffin._

_She takes a deep breath, but before she can even think to respond, the guy is talking again._

_“Yeah, come on down and I’ll get a par for you!”_

_His voice grates at something already raw and angry inside of her. (But honestly, everything feels raw and angry. She’s not even sure exactly what part of her he’s setting off.)_

_“Why the_ fuck _is there not a par in the_ _bucket_ _?” she yells, cheap aluminum railing now bending in her grip. “You idiots put the lift here, right? You can’t even load the right lights?” She starts lowering the lift, and it’s going so damn slow she’s about ready to just jump out and climb down. “Fuck, am I working with toddlers?” The lift finally reaches its lowest point, and she springs out, all but throwing the lights out of it after her. Her voice is rising in pitch, sardonic and livid and barbed in a way she can’t control—in a way she_ doesn’t want to _. “No, you know what? Toddlers might have more common sense.”_

_The stage is silent. Good. She can finally work in peace._

_~_

For once, Adora is grateful to have something to fixate on.

It’s good because thinking about a future review that might well destroy her career hasn’t been, like, _nice._ That, coupled with thinking about her mistakes onstage also hasn’t been, like, _good._ Then there’s Razz’s voice, reminding her of how much Adora reminds her of Mara…

Thinking about Catra, at least, is rooted in something pleasant. _Anxiety-inducing,_ the voice in the back of her head corrects her, but less so than her other fixations. It’s the metric by which she has to view her thoughts. _Which horrible thing worries me the least? Let’s think about_ that _._ It’s what gets her through the day, most days.

The roof had helped, too, but the way Catra had ended their conversation had left Adora on tenterhooks. She wants _more._ More information, more conversation, more time, just _more._

Prop sword in hand, she wrenches her thoughts back to the present. Catra, although visible backstage from where Adora is standing, will have to wait until rehearsal is over. This scene is one of Adora’s favorites, and that fact is the perfect catalyst to get her brain back on task. At least, until she manages to distract herself again. She can still see Catra.

Glimmer comes up next to her, nudging her in the side. “Stage left— _don’t_ make it obvious.”

When Glimmer looks the other way, like she’s never been more interested in a curtain in her life, Adora slowly, carefully turns her attention to stage left.

The scene they’re on, aptly referred to as the “Plant Golem Scene” for the… well, the _plant golem_ , involves the entire cast. There’s the meeting of the Princess Alliance downstage, sans Perfuma, who, for the first time, will actually be flying in. The conceit is—and this Adora loves in all its corniness—that she herself transforms into a plant golem. The reason isn’t clear, but Perfuma’s performance has been a joy to watch thus far.

Over on stage left, Adora clocks Perfuma and Scorpia as they work on getting Perfuma’s fly harness set up.

Without turning back to Glimmer, she whispers, “What am I looking at?”

“Just _look_ at them,” Glimmer hisses. Adora squints. She _is_ looking. What is she looking at? “Adora, this is fresh and juicy.”

“I don’t like you saying those words.”

“The tea is piping hot. It’s burning my mouth.” They’re still back to back, but Glimmer’s hand grips her wrist. “Ouch.”

“You’re getting more and more cryptic.”

“They’re into each other.” Now it’s Bow, sidling up beside Adora, ever the voice of reason. “That’s the tea. Uh… _sis._ ”

“Thank you,” Glimmer responds.

Now that she knows _what_ to look for, Adora can see it clearly. Scorpia is talking a mile a minute, trying to explain all the ins and outs of what’s going to happen. It’s practical information, but Perfuma seems less interested in that, and way more invested in touching Scorpia’s shoulder (and her bicep, and her hands) as Scorpia blushes through her instruction. When Scorpia tightens and locks the straps on Perfuma’s thighs, she meets Perfuma’s eyes; the two share a look that is entirely too private for Adora to keep watching.

“ _Wow,_ ” she says, turning bodily towards Bow and Glimmer behind her.

“Now you see,” Bow says.

“You’ve got to keep up with the hot goss, Adora.” Glimmer pats her cheek. “We’ll keep you updated.”

“Thanks so much,” Adora says, but doesn’t quite mean it. She’s got a bad feeling that Scorpia and Perfuma aren’t the only _hot goss_ in town.

Glimmer and Bow have already gotten started on some other piece of gossip, but something in the wings catches Adora’s attention.

As per usual, it’s Catra. Her headset is around her neck, hands at the back of her head. She pulls, and her hair falls loose around her shoulders, wild and thick. Adora’s attention doesn’t have any other place to go. She tunes out Glimmer and Bow, focusing completely on the woman in the wings. The woman she can’t get out of her head.

Catra ties her hair back up, higher this time, and slips her headset back on. 

And then, as if Catra feels Adora’s gaze on her, she glances over; mismatched eyes meet hers, and Adora is immediately reminded again of that crackle of energy between them, of the way it had felt to sit next to her on the roof, to laugh with her, and of how badly she wants—

“ _PLACES!”_ Hordak yells from the house, and the flurry of movement sends her and Catra in opposite directions, which unfortunately seems to be becoming a pattern.

Adora has to shake her head to refocus. She gets into position, downstage center, sword in the air.

Mermista starts the scene. “My home needs the protection of the Princess Alliance. We cannot afford to sit by any longer and wait for disaster to strike.” She thumps her trident-broom on the stage.

“The Kingdom of Snows will concede,” Frosta says, stepping to Adora’s side. “We stand with you, She-Ra.”

Then, from above, a voice calls, “Plumeria lends its aid!” Everyone’s head snaps upwards to see Perfuma floating down, covered head-to-toe in fake vines, arms waving high above her head. “The fruits of our labor—and my plant magic, of course—are yours to share! For the She-Ra!”

“The power of the Moonstone,” Glimmer begins and claps Adora on the shoulder, “has always belonged to the Rebellion.”

“And my sword!” Sea Hawk declares.

“And my arrows!” Bow contributes.

“Then it is settled,” Adora says, dropping her voice to access that _She-Ra_ energy. It works, and she remembers her lines, thank _god._ “All bear witness. Before you stands the new Princess Alliance!” She thrusts her sword into the air. “For the Rebellion!”

The cast echoes her, harmonizing better than ever. They slide effortlessly into _“For The Rebellion”_ , which is quite possibly the best song in the entire musical, and Adora loses herself to it. She lets the music and the dancing carry her away from her anxieties, from her real-world problems. The theater has been an amazing way to escape ever since she discovered it as a kid. It’s an outlet for her frustration and anger and fear, and a way to connect to her mind and body in ways that she could never before.

The number ends. Hordak calls for them to hold, and Double Trouble hops up on stage, graceful as ever.

“My _darlings!”_ They make a sweeping gesture to the stage. “You are magnificent, I hope you all know that. Now, we do have some notes here, but I have exciting news before I get to _those_. Hordak, honey? Come on up here!”

Hordak stalks down the aisle, his footsteps thudding as he climbs the stairs to the stage. He looks as dour as always, Weaver in tow.

“Would you like to make the announcement of the _century?”_ Double Trouble continues, then claps their hands together with a gasp. “Or shall _I?”_

Hordak, upon closer inspection, looks _worried._ Adora has had yet to see him expand his catalogue of expressions beyond _angry_ and _upset,_ so whatever this announcement will be is obviously big.

“Among others,” Hordak begins, much to Double Trouble’s disappointment, “the famed H. Prime will be reviewing this show.”

The cast is silent long enough for the nagging worry to start prickling at the back of Adora’s neck. It threatens to erase whatever good she’s managed to dredge out of her day. The pressure on her chest and at her temples doubles. It’d been one thing to shoulder the burden of this information alone, but still. This isn’t as exciting an announcement as Double Trouble had advertised.

Murmurs erupt amongst the cast, but Adora doesn’t catch a single word. Her brain fogs over with worry and exhaustion and the overwhelming desire to pummel her anxiety into a pancake. How does anyone stay sane with what feels like the weight of the world on their shoulders? _Do_ they stay sane?

She thinks of Mara as they’re wrangled back into rehearsal, whispers of what’s to come prodding at her from in and outside her own head.

But she makes it through rehearsal—they _all_ do—and she’s more awake than ever. It’s that same jittery energy that has carried her through many of these ten-out-of-twelves, except usually by the end of a rehearsal the energy has mostly dissipated, leaving her with barely enough drive to move her limbs.

Right now, she’s _buzzing_.

Her mind narrows its focus. There’s only one thing she wants to do.

She says goodbye to the cast in a flurry of near-incomprehensible “see ya”s, tells Bow and Glimmer that she’ll walk home, and then she’s backstage.

“Hey,” she calls, breathless. Catra turns, arms laden with props. “Can you smash shit in a dumpster, like, whenever?”

* * *

“Whenever” is _tonight_ , Catra discovers.

Adora had all but demanded an excursion. Far be it for Catra, reigning Dumpster Queen, to deny her the right to smash. Smash _bottles_ , that is.

She takes Adora across the street to the bar. Out back there’s a huge, sad excuse for a dumpster—rusted and leaking and seldom used by the bar itself. Grox, the bar owner and sometimes carpenter, used to turn a blind eye when Catra would hop in with a bag of the bar’s recyclables for some R and R. It figures she’ll do the same now.

They’ve been at it for a while, _Fright Zone_ blasting out of Catra’s pocket and a large bag of bottles between them.

“—you know what the _worst_ part is?” Adora grunts, hurtling an empty handle of vodka at the far dumpster wall. It shatters nicely. “I _know_ I’m going to get a shit review!”

“You can’t _know_ that,” Catra says, smashing her own beer bottle. “Just because _I_ think your acting is shit doesn’t mean _everyone_ will.”

“Do you really want to start with me when I’m holding a glass bottle?”

“Princess Broadway wants to get in a dumpster fight with little old me? Oh, I’m _flattered._ Bare knuckle or broken glass?”

“Shut up,” Adora says with a terse smile. She sizes up her next bottle, launching it with a frustration Catra knows only too well. She’s got an arm like a fucking cannon. That would explain the muscles.

 _Is it wrong to get turned on in a dumpster?_ She shakes that thought away.

The last song from _Fright Zone_ ends just in time for Adora to let loose her finishing barrage against the dumpster, emptying the bag of ammunition. She sighs and turns to Catra with a smile that doesn’t belong anywhere near this dumpster.

“You up for a drink?”

It’s midnight, and the set crew will be in at seven in the morning, banging around onstage. She won’t sleep well, but she rarely does. Adora makes something stir in her chest, and whatever it is can’t be beneficial for their work relationship. Honestly, she shouldn’t have even agreed to the dumpster smashing. She shouldn’t agree to talk to Adora, to even be around her. This is dangerous, in more ways than one, and what would be _best_ would be to just walk away—

Ten minutes later with a drink in hand, she wonders how it’s gotten so easy to just say _yes_. She’s never been good at _yes_ before. Maybe she’s just never had a good reason to say it.

“Does this place have a name?” Adora asks, eyes wandering over the dusty decor—the place looks like something out of a post-apocalyptic hellscape. “You just keep calling it _the bar._ ”

Catra nods, taking a swig of her cheap beer. “Crimson Waste.”

“Th—wait, that’s the name? The name of this bar?”

“Uh, you want me to say it slower? I can say it slower: _Criiiim—”_

Adora slaps her arm. “My _god,_ ASMs are insufferable.”

Catra winks at her over another sip of beer, and Adora’s cheeks immediately go pink. Twin jolts of pride and fear zip right through her body. It’s so easy to fluster Adora. All Catra can hope for is that Adora never discovers that the inverse is also true.

“Glimmer said I’d be making mistakes in here,” Adora says once she’s recovered. “I guess there’s a pretty long history of that, huh?”

The thought of the other woman makes anger flare in her chest. “I wouldn’t know jack shit about what _Sparkles_ does.”

Catra doesn’t look over, but she can feel Adora frowning at her. “Why don’t you like her?” Adora asks, like it’s nothing. She pauses, then adds, “I mean, you don’t have to say, but—”

“We’ve never gotten along.” _That’s putting it lightly_. It feels like she’s pulling out her own teeth next, but she grumbles, “ _I’ve_ made mistakes.” She finishes her drink, but it does little to dull the effect of saying that. Grox notices and slides another beer her way.

 _“You?_ ” Adora jokes, but the humor is lost on Catra. Adora changes tactics almost immediately. “What’s in the past is in the past, right?”

Catra laughs humorlessly. “Not in the theater. Not in this tiny fucking town.”

Adora is doing such a poor job of hiding her interest that Catra can all but feel the questions rolling off her in waves. However, Adora doesn't say anything, and they sip their respective beers in silence. Much to Catra’s chagrin, she finds that Adora’s respect for her privacy makes her _want_ to open up about this, to get it off her chest. Never has she had an outside perspective on the past, only hard judgements and a board of directors that eventually summoned a demon from the pits of hell to take the position Catra had spent years working for.

 _There,_ she thinks. _I can start there._

“I fucked up,” she begins, and Adora’s head snaps up, attention completely on her. It’s not easy to continue like this, but she’s going to manage. One and a half beers down makes it easier to wade through these memories. “In a lot of ways.” Adora doesn’t say anything, just lets her continue. Catra is grateful, but she won’t say that. “You asked how long I’ve been an ASM.”

“I did,” Adora confirms.

“This is my third year. But, uh…” She’s never said this out loud. Why is she saying this? “I was supposed to stage manage.”

In the space between that admission and Adora’s answer, Catra downs her second beer, signaling for a third.

“This show?” Adora asks, and it’s not prodding, not nosy. She’s not fishing for information in the way that others do. It’s gentle.

Catra nods. She picks at the label of her new beer bottle. “Didn’t work out. Obviously.”

There are so many questions Adora could ask. Catra readies herself for any one of them. The defensive voice in the back of her head tells her to raise her hackles, to run if the pressure is on, if Adora demands more information than she wants to give. Her old habits remind her that she can fight and she can wound and that she’s strong enough to push back should the need arise.

“Well,” Adora begins, and even as the beer begins to take effect, Catra feels every muscle in her body tense. “I’m glad you’re backstage.” The tension is gone in a _whoosh_ , and the alcohol seeps into her system. She looks at Adora. There’s no malice there, no judgement. She’s smiling. “We might not be friends if you were the SM.”

Catra looks at her, _really_ looks at her. There’s a little scar along her left eyebrow, white against her already light skin. She doesn’t have freckles like Catra does, but there is a smattering along her cheekbones; it’s probably more from sunlight than genetics.

She’s beautiful. Really, genuinely beautiful.

Catra doesn’t say that. She says, “How fucking corny.” There’s no bite to it.

Adora laughs, and Catra only later realizes how much the word “ _friends_ ” stings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, my dudes osmrice and golari keep me sane
> 
> i hope you all have been enjoying this! i love each and every comment i get, and very much appreciate the feedback!! :))
> 
> okay, also, for those of you wondering about slime pig: [look at this mess](https://youtu.be/9dg0z6U-wiE?t=888)


	7. Act Three: Turning Point

“How’s it going, Skimble?”

Catra chokes on her coffee and looks up from her paperwork. She’d been skimming the contents. It's a hefty shift plot courtesy of Weaver, circa about five in the godforsaken morning.

Ahead, sauntering into the lobby, with her signature worn red jacket and gray yoga pants, is Adora. Her hair is loose and wet around her shoulders, and while the little contrarian that lives in the back of Catra’s head is telling her to call Adora something akin to a wet rat, the rest of her brain has dissolved into a very fine powder.

Her heart kicks up. She is not allowed to be this happy to see Adora. It’s only been a _day_ since she’s seen her, only _two_ since their dumpster escapade.

The gears in her head grind as she shifts them, slamming her face into a frown instead of the smile she wants to wear. “ _What_ did you call me?”

“Skimbleshanks!” Adora says brightly like she hasn’t just insulted every cell in Catra’s body. She’s so peppy and upbeat and it’s not easy to look like she's angry at her, however fake it might be. “You know, the Railway—”

“Don’t you _ever_ call me that again.”

“Okay, sure,” Adora says and thinks for a moment too long. “Hey, Mungojerry, can you hand me a cup?”

She’s going to take Adora’s very pretty eye out. Catra glares at her. “I’m leaving.”

“Aw, Mungo, don’t be like that!” Adora whines, a shit-eating grin plastered across her face. “Come _on_ , Catra. You can’t expect me _not_ to when you’re wearing _that._ ”

Catra follows Adora’s outstretched hand to her chest. A pair of faded yellow eyes remind her that she hasn’t changed out of her pajamas. They’d had a day off yesterday, and her brain needs coffee before it can make any halfway decent decisions. Wandering around in the clothes she’d slept in: a pre-coffee decision. It’s early, even for Adora, but the start of tech week usually has people all over the place.

“It’s just a shirt,” she says defensively, “a black shirt.”

“Do you own clothes in any other color?”

“Hey, Adora? Did you know that people work backstage?” she snarks, even though she goes on to fill up a second cup with coffee anyway. Someone’s been kind enough to leave a dispenser out in the lobby. It’ll be empty the moment the other actors and crew show up, which is exactly why Catra has parked herself in front of it. “Did you know that those people are the only reason _you_ look good while you’re prancing around like those wavy things they use to sell cars?”

Adora takes the coffee with a grin and bats her eyelashes. She's infuriating. “You think I look good onstage?”

 _You have no idea._ “I said you look like an inflatable tube with googly eyes.”

“Is that your type?”

A disorienting desire to both roll her eyes into the back of her head and to jump the woman gives enough time for the echoing of a door opening to catch their attention.

“I thought I heard someone out here!” Micah says jovially as he rounds the corner. “There’s our star! You and Angie always beat me out of the house—but not today!” He claps Adora on the back, and she gives him a good-natured chuckle. When he meets Catra’s eyes, his expression falls almost imperceptibly. But Catra notices. “Well, good morning, Catra.”

“‘Morning,” she manages, but her voice sounds creaky and pathetic. Panic begins to rise in her throat. She can’t stay here. “I, um… I’ve got some stuff to do. See you.”

She knows Adora will want to go after her, but now’s not the time. She can’t explain, she doesn’t owe Adora this explanation. She just has to _go_ , and so she makes a run for it.

Later, hidden away in an alcove, she presses her head against the cool concrete wall.

 _You can run all you want_ , she thinks against her will, _but you can’t forget._

~

_She’s been hallucinating._

_They say it happens after two full days without sleep. After three, there can be major health risks._

_Well, it’s been three, and there are spikes growing out of the box office girl’s head. Although, knowing this girl, those might be real. Her hair, usually pink and purple, shifts to blue as Catra stares, and flickers back to normal when she blinks._

_The girl is supposed to be relaying a message from her uppity mother, but Catra can’t be fucked to listen. She knows the message. She’s_ known _the message. The theater’s going under, big fucking deal. She’ll go work at the drive-thru by the interstate if they cut her pay a_ third _time. There’s a crumpled-up eviction notice in her pocket, so she’ll be flipping burgers regardless._

_“My mother will be here soon with more information,” Sparkles says. “If you have questions…”_

_God, can they please just get back to work? No one has time for this shit—the show opens in_ three _days._

_Catra eyes the lights overhead. They swim in her vision, shifting from stage lights to disco balls to donuts. She blinks hard and shakes her head. Lights again._

_A thought worms its way out of the haze._ “You need to focus that fucking par. It got moved,” _she thinks to herself, annoyed._

_Sparkles is still yapping onstage to the rest of the crew, which gives Catra an opening to get the lift set up._

_“Catra?”_

_If someone tries to stop her from doing her_ fucking _job—“What?” she snaps._

_It’s Sparkles. “Can you hold on until after my mom comes by?”_

_“It’s going to take me thirty seconds. Can you wait thirty fucking seconds?”_

_She doesn’t give her a chance to respond, just hops in the bucket and starts heading up. Sparkles yells after her, but she’s not listening. The shouts become distorted this high up, and the floor looks like lava, like water, like ice._

_She reaches the light. Sparkles is still yelling, or maybe it’s just her grating voice echoing in Catra’s head. Who knows? Who_ cares?

_The light is pitched at a stupid angle. Which idiot moved it? She’d done it perfectly last week. She starts wrenching the thing loose._

_It all happens too fast for her sleep-deprived brain to catch._

_The_ _safety cable_ _isn’t hooked around the pipe. When the light is loose, it has nowhere to go but down. There’s a sickening crunch, a scream, a clatter of metal and glass, and when she looks down, her vision is red and distorted but it’s Sparkles’ mother on the ground, clutching her shoulder. Of that she can be sure._

 _She’s coming down in the lift. Every foot adds another gallon of liquid rage to the fire blazing under her skin, in her head,_ everywhere. _When she reaches the ground, she feels like a pressurized can in a furnace: she explodes._

 _“You didn’t see me with the fucking light? Why the hell would you walk_ right _underneath—”_

_“Catra,” Glimmer says, and the sound of her name is the most lethal, hate-filled word she has ever heard. “Get. Out.”_

~

_“It’s fun to fight hard with friends!”_

Up on the highest platform, Sea Hawk and Mermista strike a pose, rapier against trident (or rather, _broom_.) They end the number in a flourish, with Mermista executing a flawless backflip over Sea Hawk’s head. It’s impressive every time she does it.

The rock ballad is one of the show’s highlights. The two of them bring an ease to the roles that one can only get from real-world chemistry. It’s not new news though; Glimmer and Bow have already fed her _that_ gossip. As aloof as Mermista can be, Adora’s caught the way she looks at Sea Hawk when she thinks no one’s looking. Also, she’d seen them making out in the alley after rehearsal, so. There’s that too.

Their chemistry makes her wonder how she and Catra might—

_Let’s put the brakes on that right now, how about?_

She’s in the middle of a highly choreographed fight scene with Glimmer, so reason dictates that she should _not_ be distracted. _Besides_ , her traitorous brain reminds her, _you were coming on way too strong this morning. Catra left, didn’t she? Oh god, what if—_

“ _Ow!”_ Glimmer’s staff whacks her funny bone, and her whole arm goes staticky, dull pain shooting into her fingertips.

She tries to recover, gripping the sword hard with her other hand, but the hit hasn’t gone unnoticed. _“HOLD!”_ Hordak bellows from the audience.

The pain is suddenly the least of her worries. Not only had she ruined this morning by acting like a _creep_ around Catra, she’s now derailed rehearsal. It’s one thing to have missed lines in the past, in the first couple days of rehearsal, but this is tech week. Their show opens _next week,_ and the reminder of opening night looming so closely overhead is enough to amplify the pressure in her head, the pain in her arm, and the ever-growing lack of focus that weighs like a lead weight on her chest. Now’s the time to be perfect, and she is doing a bang-up job of doing the _exact opposite._

Frosta materializes at her hip. “It’s _left-_ right-left- _parry!”_ she growls. She yanks the sword (finally a real prop) out of Adora’s hands and glares up at her like she’s just slapped her mother. _“Watch.”_

Glimmer has exactly one second to prepare for Frosta. She’s launched into the fight choreography, her face the definition of panic as Frosta goes through Adora’s moves like they’re hers, at _double speed;_ it’s so viscerally frightening coming from this eleven year old girl, Adora doesn’t even attempt to protest. She forgets the pain in her arm, her focus completely on watching Glimmer struggle to keep up.

“There,” Frosta says, ending the sequence. She hasn’t broken a sweat. She tosses the sword back, and Adora almost misses it, further solidifying her current position as the show’s resident idiot. Frosta reaches up to jab a finger into Adora’s chest. “Get it right next time.”

She watches the literal child go back to her place upstage, clutching her sword to her chest like it’s a safety blanket. She’s scared. She _wants_ a safety blanket.

The sudden pat of Glimmer’s hand on her shoulder brings her back to reality. Adora turns to look, and Glimmer looks like she’s seen a ghost. Or run a marathon. Or both _._ “Is your arm okay,” she huffs, “because I think I’m going to die, and I’d like to apologize before I do.”

Adora cracks a grin. “I’m fine. It’s my fault, I was just—” Her eyes wander away from Glimmer for a split second, and she finds Catra in the wings. Their eyes meet for just a moment, and Catra turns away. Worry pools in the pit of her stomach again. “—uh, distracted.”

Glimmer’s still recovering from her ordeal—she just nods. “Let’s grab a drink tonight. We could all use it. Besides, you’ve got to see the bar!”

Adora bites her tongue. Glimmer doesn’t know. It’s probably for the best.

 _“RESET!”_ It’s Hordak again. Yelling like that is _not_ good for his voice, but Adora won’t say it to his face. “Top of the fight sequence!”

She squares off in front of Glimmer again, who looks very unhappy. She gives Adora a humorless smile. “Fuck everyone else, _I_ need a drink.”

Adora can agree.

They make it through the fight and stop for nearly half an hour as Entrapta reprograms a series of erratic light cues and has her assistant run around the theater to check audio levels. Entrapta says so many big words in so little time, Adora shocks herself by understanding even a fraction of them. This is just what tech week _is,_ but it doesn’t make the waiting to move on with the show any less boring. She’s stuck downstage center while they hold, far away from the rest of the cast and crew. She’s bored and antsy and hungry and Glimmer’s suggestion becomes more and more appealing the longer they wait.

Absently, she wonders if she could invite Catra. Knowing Glimmer, it’s probably not the greatest plan.

Entrapta’s programming drags all the way into dinner break. When they’re allowed to leave, she turns down Bow’s offer to grab food down the street, and promises to buy him an apology drink later.

If she won’t catch Catra at the bar, the least she can do is make amends now.

She rifles quickly through her bag for the twin peanut butter and jelly sandwiches she’d packed and heads backstage. There, Scorpia’s talking to three crew members around the prop table. Adora realizes with a start that she doesn’t know the others’ names, which goes against about ten of her personal theater etiquette rules. She’s about to call out, but Scorpia sees her first, enthusiastically waving her over with both hands.

“Great job today, Adora! You’re like— _wow,_ you know? Like a musical _machine!”_ Scorpia nudges her with her elbow, more forcefully than Adora had anticipated; she stumbles back, catching herself on the prop table. “I was just telling Lonnie—I said: ‘Just you wait Lonnie, you’re gonna be impressed this _whole_ run!’ We’ve got such a… a _wealth..._ Yeah, a _wealth_ of talent here!”

The other woman gives Scorpia a long-suffering look, which either Scorpia completely ignores or doesn’t notice. It’s probably the latter.

She extends her hand to Adora. “Lonnie,” she introduces herself, offering a hand; Adora takes it and instantly understands the kind of person Lonnie is when she almost crushes Adora's hand. She angles her head back to the two men organizing props. “Those are my boys.”

The smaller guy smiles. He somehow manages to look like someone’s got a knife to his throat. There are no knives in the immediate vicinity. “I’m Kyle—” He goes to wave and drops the armful of plastic arrows at his feet. “Uh, sorry.” Lonnie shoots him a look. “ _Sorry!”_

“Seriously Kyle?” Lonnie tuts. Scorpia sighs and goes over to help. With arms like a linebacker, her brand of assistance does the trick, and she wanders off with Kyle, presumably to lift more things.

The larger man rolls his eyes and comes over for an equally firm handshake. “ _Rogelio_ ,” he supplies, his accent thick. He gives her an approving nod, and a short one to the stage. “ _Eres bien chingona._ ”

“Um…” _Fuck,_ Adora thinks, _I really should have taken up Spanish back in the city._ “I’m sorry, I don’t—”

Lonnie waves her off. “Don’t worry about it.” She pats Rogelio on the back, and a small, silent exchange passes between them. He ambles off to help Kyle and Scorpia. “You need something?”

“Was… uh, did he insult me?”

“None of us know. Better not to ask.”

Adora tables the heap of questions as they come to her. She just smiles at Lonnie instead, and it feels tight. “I was just looking for—”

“Catra?” Lonnie asks, expression unimpressed. “Check the roof—and tell her I’m _not_ sweeping the stage again. She ran off before I could tell her myself.”

So as to not give herself away, Adora thanks her and runs off to take the stairs. When she gets to the access door, however, she hesitates. What if Catra doesn’t want to talk to her anymore? That message was clear enough this morning. It could also, rationally, have been any number of other things. But what if it isn’t? What if—

The door swings open, and there’s Catra. She looks shocked for a fraction of a second, and Adora sees another emotion cross over her face before it settles in a frown.

 _Shit._ “Uh—”

Catra sighs through her nose. “ _Great._ I really love being followed.”

It’s like a punch to the gut. She _has_ been coming on too strong. She _has_ been reading this— _all_ of this wrong. “I… I’m sorry. I’ll go—”

“ _Wait._ ” Adora looks down. Catra’s hand is around her wrist. She doesn’t meet Adora’s eyes when she continues, “Sorry. What’s up?”

“Nothing,” Adora replies, disappointed when Catra releases her wrist, and only slightly relieved by the change in tone. “…You okay?”

Catra meets her eyes this time, sheepish. “Long day.” She gives Adora a half-smile that makes her a little weak in the knees. “Go out there, I’ll be back in a minute.”

She’s gone before Adora can ask any other questions, but the invitation is clear enough. It’s not enough reason to set her worries aside (not that she _could_ if she wanted to) but it’s enough to push herself to step out into the cool, early night air. She sits on the strange block of machinery they’d used last time and holds the sandwiches in her lap.

When Catra returns, Adora realizes that she’s been staring at her feet the entire time. What is she, _thirteen again?_

“I brought dinner,” she tries, and realizes that peanut butter and jelly for dinner is _also_ something a thirteen year old would do. “I hope you’re not allergic to peanuts.”

Catra looks between the outstretched sandwiches and Adora. It’s a pause that draws out for too long. Catra’s eyes make her feel raw and vulnerable, and it’s here that Adora discovers that maybe… it’s not such a bad thing.

“I’m not,” Catra says, almost reverent. “Thank you.”

* * *

She’s barreling headlong into something that she cannot, for the life of her, stop.

Adora snorts at a stupid joke she makes, and her heart swells. She doesn’t want to stop. She accepts the sandwich Adora had made specifically _for her_ and sits down close enough to feel the prickle of Adora’s presence on her skin.

They’re on the topic of careers. Catra’s not sure how they’ve ended up here, but it doesn’t matter. The night is cool, their break isn’t even halfway over, and raspberry jam is her favorite. It’s a lucky guess on Adora’s part—she can’t remember telling anyone that.

Sitting with Adora, she _doesn’t_ think about how much the gesture means. She _doesn’t_ think about how Adora’s arms look. She _doesn’t_ think about how Adora had called them “friends”. She thinks about their current conversation instead, funnels every ounce of her focus into it.

“So why… why are you _still_ doing it? Why did you _start_ doing it?”

Adora shrugs. “Because it’s hard.”

Catra stares at her. “Because it’s _hard?”_

“Yeah, you know…” She takes a bite of her sandwich, waving it around for emphasis. “I was really bad. For _years._ ”

“What’s changed?”

“Fuck off.” Adora laughs and knocks their knees together. She doesn’t move away when Catra shoves right back. Their thighs are pressed together, and Adora continues, “It was just… everyone said I was bad. I couldn’t sing, couldn’t dance, I couldn’t _act._ But that was the… I don’t know, the _allure?”_

“Everyone tells you you’re shit, and _that’s_ the allure?”

“It’s like… I need to work harder than everyone else, but I like working hard.” A wry smile crosses her lips, and for the first time, Catra notices the dark circles under her eyes. The two of them match. “Even if it’s not always… you know, _good_ for me.”

This woman is too much. Then again, Catra can relate. She’s met other workaholics in the theater, but this level… this is a level she recognizes.

Adora continues in haste, mistaking pensiveness for confusion. “I’m not very good at explaining this. Just take my word for it. I like working—”

“I get it,” Catra interrupts, firm and with feeling. Because she _does_. Adora looks at her, bright blue eyes all but boring into her skull. “I totally get it.”

“Yeah?” Adora asks, almost a whisper.

They’re just looking at each other. Adora’s eyelashes catch the waning sunset, the light of the new moon. Catra is of two minds. One is: she understands the demands of the theater and the desire for upward momentum—the shared drive they recognize in each other. The other is: she wants to kiss Adora more than she’s ever wanted a promotion.

As much as it pains her to do so, she looks away.

She has to reroute her thinking. They’re _friends._ Adora has said as much. “I get what it’s like to work like that,” she finds herself saying, which is no less dangerous a path than the one she’d been heading down. “I get what it’s like to work too hard,” she whispers, and doesn’t notice that she’s just given Adora the key to a door that’s been sealed shut for months.

So when Adora asks, “Like last season?” like she’s actually concerned and not fishing for gossip, the door opens wide.

She lets Adora in. She begins to tell her about sleepless nights, about a drafty studio apartment. She tells her about fistfights in the back alley. She tells her about the people she’s hurt, the people who hate her.

“I needed the money,” Catra says, and it feels like she’s ripping off band-aid after band-aid. “I was working, what, eighteen hour days?”

“Crunch time is brutal,” Adora replies like she knows. Catra believes that she does. “You did what you thought you had to do.”

“Yeah, but I wasn’t _sleeping_. Like, ever.” She shakes her head. “The Playhouse lost half of its funding in a _day_. They begged us to work longer hours for less pay.”

“That’s… that’s got to be illegal.”

Catra shrugs. “We’re not a union house, most of us aren’t protected. Besides, we had to _do_ something—I… _I_ had to do something. Everything was done, we couldn’t just _stop."_ She goes on. “But it wasn’t enough. I couldn’t make ends meet.”

“Catra…”

She laughs humorlessly. “I was already a dick to everyone because I didn’t sleep, but after I lost my place…” She grimaces. “Yeah.”

“Catra, you did all you could. But this place… I know it’s important to you, but it’s not worth your—your _sanity._ ”

Catra looks at her sharply. The words are coming out before she can think about them. “Take your own advice, Adora.”

Adora doesn’t back down, doesn’t break eye contact. “You’re right,” she says, all stage presence, all confidence; Catra finds this an inopportune moment to remember her thinly-veiled attraction to this woman. “I totally should. We both should. What do we do about it?”

“What do _we_ …” Catra snaps her mouth shut. Opens it a few times. She lets out a short breath. “Fuck if I know.”

Then Adora does something in that easy _Adora_ brand of affection. It induces something that Catra doesn’t think she has the bandwidth to properly understand. 

Adora takes her hand and squeezes. She smiles, and Catra is fucked all over again.

“I guess we can figure it out together.”

* * *

“A drink” means _three_ drinks, in Glimmer-speak.

“I’m _fucking exhausted!"_ Glimmer throws her head back and yells at the ceiling, takes her second shot, and slams it on the table with a grimace. “ _Wow_ , that tastes like ass.”

Bow hands her a chaser. “I don’t know why you thought ordering “ _whatever”_ would turn out okay.”

“I _thought_ Grox would surprise me. Color me surprised”—she downs the chaser—“and also disgusted.”

“Another round!” Sea Hawk announces, setting a large tray of drinks in the middle of the table. Beers, mixed drinks of all kinds, and enough shot glasses for everyone. “Broke tonight, payday tomorrow!”

“We get checks on Friday, Sea Hawk,” Mermista says, grabbing a drink from the tray.

“That’s—ah…” He looks at his watch, then glances up and around the table. “And today is…”

“Tuesday,” comes the group response.

“ _Well._ ” Sea Hawk claps his hands together. “Would any kind samaritan like to… say, purchase me several meals in the coming days?”

Mermista shoves a twenty dollar bill into his chest. “Get as many mozzarella sticks as you can buy.”

“Your wish is my command, dearest!” He shuffles off, singing his introductory number from the show at the top of his lungs. Someone throws a handful of peanuts at him, though it’s not clear who. Adora isn’t sure if they have peanuts in this bar.

Adora looks around the table, feeling a little lost. It’s fun. Everyone’s having fun. That doesn’t mean she’s not thinking about smashing bottles in the dumpster out back. Or sitting on the roof. Or eyes and lips that keep her up at night. Or… just like, _Catra_ , in general.

Their talk on the roof earlier had been a little intense for their dinner break, but Adora would have easily stayed up there for hours and hours more. It had been cut short _just_ when she’d mustered up the courage to take Catra’s hand; this time, in a much less provocative way. That’s another thing she can’t stop thinking about: _Catra’s hand._

She stares into her second beer. Piss water. It’s going to be a long night.

“Sorry I’m late!” Adora looks up and sees Perfuma bustling in. She sets her large woven bags down on the table in a heap, frazzled. The one closest to Adora says " _Namaste"_ in swirly green letters. “I lost track of time.”

“It’s not a _meeting._ ” Mermista rolls her eyes and takes a sip of what looks like a rum and coke. “Also, you might want to cover up that _massive_ hickey before management sees it.”

Perfuma goes lobster-red, hairline to collarbone. “Wh-what do you mean?” Adora can’t get a good look before she’s undoing her hair, tugging it hastily around her neck. “I don’t—I’m not—”

“ _Bow!”_ Glimmer slams her fist on the table and opens her palm to him. He groans and presses a crumpled bill into her hand. She looks supremely pleased with herself, taking a triumphant gulp of beer. She raises an eyebrow at Perfuma. “Lost track of time, hm?”

Perfuma juts her chin out, indignant. “Okay, you’ve caught me,” she says, still a vivid red. “But I _know_ when the universe is sending me a message. How can I ignore it?”

“Is the message ‘ _screw the rigger backstage_ ’?” Mermista mutters into her drink. “Because _what_ a message.”

Adora can’t help but grin at that. She’d definitely gotten that same message on her first tour. Hopefully things turn out better for Perfuma.

Perfuma takes what looks like a vodka soda off the tray in the middle of the table, eyeing them both. “Make all the jokes you want.” She takes a small sip of her drink, grimaces, and recovers by clearing her throat. “I can’t and _won’t_ just _ignore_ a deep spiritual connection!”

“Is that what they’re calling it?” Glimmer asks, and Mermista snorts directly into her drink, getting it all over her shirt.

The two of them break into laughter, but Adora can’t be so quick to judge. The parallels are there, but they’re not as glaringly obvious as she might _like_ them to be. _I don’t have a hickey_ , she thinks, and wants to slap herself, and also wants to find where she’s saved Catra’s number in her phone. She grabs a stray shot, downs it before she can consider that idea any longer. The end will not justify the means.

“We’re not judging you, Perfuma,” Bow says, placating as Perfuma’s face remains that deep red. “In fact, no one at this whole table has _any_ room to judge.” Adora’s heart all but stops in her chest. Bow turns to her, gestures at her. “Except maybe Adora.”

_Oh thank god._

No one takes _that_ bait, and it gives Adora the much-needed opportunity to take a large swig of beer to calm her nerves and to consider Bow’s statement.

“Wait— _no one?_ ” Adora sputters, looking around the table. Bow’s the only one paying any attention to her. “I mean, I get that show-mances are pretty common, but…”

Bow gives her a meaningful look, eyebrows raised. He gestures to Mermista and Sea Hawk, the latter having just returned with a veritable _mountain_ of mozzarella sticks. “Hello?” Bow says.

“Well, yeah, I know _them.”_

His eyebrows stay like that for a beat. She stares at him. He stares back, unflinching.

The realization is like taking a dumbbell to the foot.

She can’t help the way her face reacts, eyes widening, jaw dropping open. “You and Glimmer…”

He nods slowly.

“I knew it!” she says, out loud, and probably sounds like an idiot. _What else is new?_ “I knew you guys were together! Oh, god this is so relieving. I didn’t want to say anything—”

“Adora, we’re not—” He spares a quick glance at Glimmer, but she’s involved herself in some sort of mozzarella stick contest with the other three. He turns back. “We’re not _together_ together. We just, you know… sleep together sometimes. A lot. A lot of sometimes… Exclusively. And hang out all the time.”

Things make less sense. “Wait but… what? Isn’t that… that _sounds_ like a relationship, Bow. That sounds _exactly_ like you’re _together_ together.”

“It’s… complicated.” He leans in close. Adora follows his lead. “I’m going to ask her if she wants to… to really _date_ after we close. But it _has_ to be after.”

Adora frowns. “Why?”

“Things get messy during a show. I don’t want it to come between us.” He smiles at her, a little pained, a little worried. “We’re friends first, you know?”

The statement hits a nerve, but Adora doesn’t have time to think about it. Sea Hawk gets everyone’s attention, one foot on the table like he’s on the label of a bottle of rum. He’s announcing a drinking game, which, really, does not bode well.

“My comrades in theater! I propose a rousing game of _Ring of Fire!”_

Mermista groans, “None of us brought an entire deck of cards to thisbar, Sea Hawk.”

“Oh, I beg to differ, darlings.” As if on cue (as always), the voice from behind Adora turns out to be Double Trouble. They’ve got just what they need in hand, waving it around like it’s a prize. “I thought I heard some theater-types in here. Mind if I join you all?”

“Not at all!” Sea Hawk bellows. “The more the merrier!”

With Adora’s luck, they pull up a seat right next to her. Because of their obvious psychic abilities, they pick up on the tension that’s gathered in Adora’s shoulders _immediately._ “Don’t mind me, sweetie. I’m off the clock.”

“I wasn’t—uh…” But she _was_ nervous— _is_ nervous. She’s sitting next to a theater legend, in a grimy bar, halfway to Tipsy Town and she _will_ say something stupid in front of them, there’s no doubt.

In a moment of simultaneous alarm and delight, Adora remembers her discussion with Angella, how her employer had mentioned Double Trouble speaking so highly of Adora’s work. The part of her brain that is one-hundred percent _theater_ _person_ wants to casually drop a lure to fish for compliments. 

But Double Trouble looks her up and down, and the confidence they exude makes it entirely too frightening to even try, no matter _how_ much she’s had to drink.

They smirk at her, and it really drives that unease home. “You need a stronger drink, honey. Finish that piss water and I’ll be right back.”

They leave Adora like that, like a tugboat out to sea. Everyone’s listening to Sea Hawk’s rules of the game, with Glimmer and Bow interjecting every so often to correct him, but Adora’s not listening. She finishes her second beer, as instructed, and plans her way out should she get too close to the edge. There _always_ has to be a contingency plan. She can’t hold her liquor to save her life.

She’ll make a beeline for the door when she starts to lose feeling in the tips of her fingers; it’s always been her benchmark of drunkenness, and will now serve as her first line of defense. Depending on _how_ far gone she is, she’ll call a cab instead of walking—

Double Trouble returns with two large, vibrant-looking drinks in massive hurricane glasses. They set one in front of Adora, and she sees both god and the devil in the orange and red liquid. They don’t elaborate, and Adora has always been more of a beer-and-whiskey girl, so the cocktail is genuinely terrifying. Her contingency plan goes flying out of the bar’s dingy windows.

She takes a sip, and the mighty hand of tequila smacks her across the face.

The game begins. Each time around the circle, Adora manages to lose. She takes sip after sip until she’s staring down twenty ounces of empty. Double Trouble is “kind” enough to get her another. By the time Perfuma loses the game by breaking the playing card ring around the table, Adora feels… _fucking dope_.

No, _bad._ Not good.

She turns to Bow. He swims in her vision. But she is determined to speak with him. Determined to explain how she’s feeling in a concise manner.

“ _Heeeyyy YOU!”_ She slaps him on the back, and he lurches forward. “Bowbow.”

 _That’s_ not good.

“What’s up… _Ador-aaah?_ Adore—oh _wowowoah_ I just _got it!_ I _adore-_ a, you! _Hah!”_

That’s also not good.

There’s the sound of a chair dragging clumsily along the floor, and when Adora blinks, Glimmer has appeared between them, her arms around their shoulders.

“I’m am _fuckéd up-p._ ” She laughs, her head pitching forward. “You’s guys are too!”

This is not the most desirable of situations. She begins pondering a response—how can she elaborate on her current state? Certainly there’s something she can say that will be understood by her friends.

“You’re are my good _good_ friend,” Adora explains, “see what’s _good_ friends?”

Bow nods, swinging his whole neck up and down. “You’re right, that’s is the _right_ thing to sa-ay! _Wow!"_ he shouts.

Wow, indeed. Things seem to be going better. She’s here with her friends, enjoying the night. She’s suddenly very grateful for having come out to the bar. The others begin heading out, saying their goodbyes, but Adora finds that her position, here with Bow and Glimmer, is much preferable to leaving. Not much could make it better. Not much, except—

“ _Shhhfff_ I wishs _Catra_ was right here in here, mmm?” Adora says truthfully. 

Glimmer’s head whips around so fast she knocks foreheads with Adora. It should hurt, but somehow the pain is nowhere to be found. “ _Cats?_ _”_ Glimmer shouts, entirely too close for Adora’s delicate hearing. “Adora no- _o-o-o!_ Don’t you have _stop_ that!”

“ _Glimmer!"_ Bow rests his hand on Glimmer’s face. She doesn’t register it for a long moment, then proceeds to try to bite him until he pulls his hand away. “It’s okay!”

“Catra’s very not mean—not… _not nice._ Mean.”

This won’t do at all. She may not know Glimmer and Bow’s side of things, but she now knows Catra’s—or at least, whatever Catra had been willing to divulge on their break. She has to be able to speak on Catra’s behalf. She grabs Glimmer’s face in her hands. Glimmer’s eyes struggle to focus on her. “ _Glimmner,_ ” Adora says, deadly serious, “I like her _so much._ ”

Glimmer gapes at her. “ _Wow,_ ” she breathes, “everyone’s gonna bang all of everyone.”

No, she can’t have her thinking— “We’re not _bangeding!”_

Bow hums. “You will be.”

Glimmer nods gravely, cheeks smushed between Adora’s palms. “Will be.”

It sounds like a bad omen, but also a promise (that Adora wouldn’t mind taking up), and it makes Adora a little woozy. Or maybe that’s the alcohol. Probably both.

Glimmer and Bow stick to her side the whole walk home. 

***

In the morning, through the pain in her head and her stomach, she realizes that they’re all piled on top of each other on Glimmer’s bed.

She remembers feeling very worried while at the bar last night. Blearily, her unfocused eyes notice Bow’s foot in her face. Still drunk, she’s (only slightly) less worried.

It’s unclear how she manages to get out from under both Bow _and_ Glimmer, but she ends up in the kitchen. It’s well past her time to be out and about for a run, so it follows that she should just double down and make a few more mistakes before they have to be at the theater.

When Bow appears, dragging Glimmer down the hallway, Adora is eating a concoction of what can only be described as—

“What is that?” Bow asks.

Adora holds up her spoon to him, the mushy contents on display. “Pop-Tart porridge.” She takes a bite. “Wan’some?”

Glimmer grimaces up at her, very hungover, and yet not unlike how Morning-Glimmer normally looks. “Where the hell did you find Pop-Tarts?”

“That is a special secret,” Adora manages to say, and spoons some more Pop-Tart mush into her mouth. “...The drawer with the tape and some paper clips.”

“You’re still drunk and you found Pop-Tarts in the office supply drawer, is what you’re saying,” Bow clarifies, as he sets Glimmer up with a glass of water before letting her slump over on the kitchen counter. "Pop-Tarts that have probably been there since Glimmer was a child."

Adora closes her eyes, raises her eyebrows, and purses her lips. It seems, in the moment, to be an apt response.

She continues eating her Pop-Tart porridge while Bow mothers Glimmer’s limp body. It gets her thinking, as she drinks the Pop-Tart milk, about the blurry events of last night.

“You guys,” she says; it’s almost— _almost_ a whine. She slaps her hand on the marble countertop. “You guys really think I’m and Catra are banging? You _really_ really?”

Glimmer snorts into the table, her whole body jostling. “ _Yeah_ we really think that.”

“No, there's noooo banging,” Adora says forlornly. She pauses. “I mean, pfft, _she's_ bangin', but... she's not banging _me_.”

Bow sets a cup of black coffee in front of both Glimmer and Adora, and adds a mountain of sugar to his own. Adora decides to spoon some Pop-Tart milk into her coffee cup, because why not?

“Look, Adora. Just because we have a… checkered… past with her doesn’t mean that we should influence how you feel,” he says sagely, sipping his coffee before he adds yet another spoonful of sugar. “I haven’t talked to her in a while. I’d be willing to bet some things have changed since last season.”

 _They have!_ Adora thinks but doesn’t say, because somewhere in her still-drunk mind, a voice reminds her that Catra’s told her everything in confidence. Also, she's only been in town for a few weeks.

“If by that you mean she’s stopped dropping lights on people, then hooray for her,” Glimmer deadpans.

Adora is suddenly _way_ too sober. “... _What?_ What do you—”

“I would hope the theater’s been accident-free lately,” a voice says from behind them. Adora whirls around.

It’s Angella, a picture of grace juxtaposed against the hungover twenty-somethings in the kitchen. 

“No accidents, mom. We were just…”

“Talking about my accident. I heard as much.”

“It wasn’t _your_ accident, mom.” Glimmer massages her temples. “You didn’t _do_ anything.”

“It was my shoulder, Glimmer. I think that counts as my accident.”

Adora’s head is throbbing. She’s not yet sober enough to piece together the story that’s unfolding, but her face must give her confusion away, because Angella gives her a sympathetic smile.

“I was injured last season,” Angella explains. “It’s not a question of fault, however. I will make that clear.”

“Mom, she dropped a fucking _light—_ ”

“ _Language_ , Glimmer.”

“Oh my god,” Glimmer groans, burying her head back in her arms.

Angella turns back to Adora. “Accidents happen. But… our _reactions_ to them… those matter more than the incident itself.”

Bow, who’s been nervously looking between the three women, decides to speak up. “We’ve mentioned her being, uh— _challenging._ ”

“We have to understand—”

“Mom, why are you defending her?” Glimmer shouts, now standing. “She broke your shoulder and blamed _you!_ How is that… _defensible?”_

“Because I now know the circumstances surrounding the incident.” Angella’s gaze is steely, her tone firm. “They are not mine to share, Glimmer, but they are forgivable. I would not have rehired her had I thought otherwise.”

Adora comes back to herself, ramrod straight behind the kitchen counter. The pieces float clumsily together: Catra’s reluctance to open up, her running off yesterday morning when she’d seen Micah, her exhaustion, and everything she’d said on the roof.

“Why _did_ you rehire her?” Adora finds herself asking, unable to contain the question.

Angella smiles, faint but assured. “Because she needed help. Don’t we all, at one time or another?”

The kitchen is silent, but there’s something much calmer in the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's time for Real Shit featuring Angry Catra
> 
> anyway, apologies for the longer wait, but i hope y'all enjoyed! all references to Cats: The Musical are because of my gf, i blame her completely (see: skimbleshanks the railway cat and mungojerry) speaking of, [this is catra's shirt](https://www.teepublic.com/t-shirt/6214403-official-cats-musical-tshirt)
> 
> as always, gotta thank my dudes osmrice and golari for being bros and also my friend craisinscourge for doing some fantastic art for the first chapter!! [check it here](https://bazaarwords.tumblr.com/post/625813090812952576/no-update-today-in-the-works-will-happen-soon)
> 
> see y'all soon, and come say hi on [twitter](https://twitter.com/bazaarwords) or [tumblr](https://bazaarwords.tumblr.com/)!


	8. Tragic Flaw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> as always, big thanks to my dudes osmrice and golari for being the realest

It’s time.

They’ve got this show down to a science. At least, Adora likes to think that they do. It helps her stomach the overwhelming anxiety. There are plenty of things that could go wrong, but they’ve gotten through their dress rehearsals, their previews, and tonight—

Tonight they open.

The past week has been a whirlwind. With tech, dress, and all of the media events Hordak has arranged, Adora’s had little time for anything but the show. Catra, it seems, has been in the same boat, because other than the occasional passing glance, Adora hasn’t seen much of her. The doubtful voice in her head wonders if their last rooftop conversation had been too much, if Adora had seen too much of Catra, if she’d dug too deep. But then she’ll see Catra sprinting like a bat out of hell, arms laden with props and batteries, and it all makes sense. Realistically, neither of them have had time for each other in the pre-show frenzy.

In truth, Adora misses her.

What’s more, she’s been steeping in this knowledge from Angella for the past week, the tidbit from Catra’s past that she hasn’t been so keen to share. Adora can understand why, of course, and it’s definitely cleared some confusion, but Adora wants to hear more from the source herself—

She’s thinking too much. She’s supposed to be stretching.

The black box is empty, now more of a storage room than rehearsal space, but Micah had been nice enough to let her in for some peace and quiet in the hours before call time. It’s not a real break, since she’s still working, but she can make it feel like one.

She rolls her neck, letting the tight muscles pull and release, trying to leach the tension away.

Her phone buzzes where it’s tucked into her compression shorts. She groans, her concentration gone, and pulls out the offending device.

It’s a message from her agent.

_Hope L. 4:09PM_

_Good afternoon Adora,_

_I am texting you to wish you well on your opening night._

_Additionally, I do not have an update on Prime’s attendance, but I am continuing my investigation into the matter._

_Please_ _break a leg_ _, but only figuratively._

_\- Hope_

The tension’s back in a rush.

As an act of self-preservation, she’d put her worries about Prime aside, tried to throw herself completely into the show. It had been working, too. Unfortunately, her agent has horrible timing, and even worse people skills. Maybe it’s time for a new one.

“What kind of idiot shows up _two and a half hours_ early?”

Adora looks up so fast she drops her phone. On the other side of the room, bundles of cable around her shoulders, is Catra. The image is painfully familiar.

 _Déjà vu,_ she thinks absently.

It’s the first time in a week she’s been able to look at Catra; she can finally give her more than just a fleeting glance. She takes in the image of thick hair that’s tied up in a messy ponytail, the sharp, two-colored eyes. Then, the dark circles beneath those eyes, the slight stoop of her posture, the layer of dust on her ripped black jeans.

She looks exhausted. She’s beautiful. Adora’s missed her a _lot._

“Funny, seeing as you’re _also_ here.”

“ _Some_ people have important things to do,” Catra says haughtily. She hangs the cables up; the stretch of her lithe muscles gives Adora a heart attack. She makes a wide gesture at Adora’s whole person. “We can’t all dance around in hot pants and scream at each other.”

“Have you ever seen a play, Catra?”

“A what?”

It’s funny. _Catra_ is funny. An impulse rises up, seemingly from the ground under her feet, and it carries her right over to where Catra’s standing. Before she can let herself think twice, she sweeps Catra into a hug. They’ve never hugged before; it’s something Adora realizes after her subconscious has made the decision for her. Catra is thin and wiry and a little sweaty, but she smells inexplicably like the same detergent they use on her costume and Adora doesn’t want to let go.

“…Adora?” Catra mumbles, voice muffled against Adora’s shoulder. _Fuck—_

“Sorry!” Adora flies back, releasing Catra with enough force to send them both backwards. “I’m—I just… it’s good to see you!”

It’s like she’s completely incapable of basic speech or respecting boundaries around this woman.

Catra smirks at her like she’s turned purple or grown a third arm. “It’s okay,” she says slowly. Her hands fiddle with a piece of tie line from her belt, tying it into intricate knots. It’s an absentminded gesture, but that only makes it more impressive. Also, Catra’s _hands—_ “Haven’t you seen me? Like… all week?”

“I mean _yeah,_ but we haven’t… I don’t know, _hung out_ or anything.” She smiles, sheepish and a bit unsure. “It’s been a while.”

Catra doesn’t seem to know what to do with that. She nods, and Adora’s mind immediately starts calculating viable ways to backpedal before she comes up with some other (probably _stupid)_ way to make Catra uncomfortable or—

“We can hang out now?”

Adora’s mouth is hanging open; she snaps it shut. “Yeah!” she squeaks, and then clears her throat because she has had years of intensive vocal training, and retries, two octaves lower, “I can hang.”

Catra smiles, bemused. “Debatable.”

Adora ignores that. She _can_ hang. “You want to sit here while I finish my stretches?” At Catra’s grimace, she makes an amendment. “I’m done with vocal warmups, don’t worry.”

“…And you think I _want_ to watch you attempt to get your foot behind your head?”

“Have you ever stretched, Catra?”

“Have I what?”

Adora’s brain contorts that near-identical response into a second excuse for a hug, but she wrangles her impulses into a manageable corner of her mind, and gets to stretching instead. First, she rolls her spine down and lets her head hang loose; the process allows her to change the direction of her thoughts. Meditative stretches like these help with her tension, her anxiety, and hopefully in this case, with _The Gay_. 

Before Adora has settled into child’s pose on the floor, she catches a short glimpse of Catra following her spine roll. She’s very briefly excited to see Catra participating. Then, with a sound like ten people at a crab boil, every joint in Catra’s body seems to pop at the same time.

“Oh my _god_.” Aghast, she looks up from her own stretch, expecting to see Catra still and immobile. Instead, she’s met with the picture of Catra folded over _completely,_ her entire forearm almost pressed against the ground. “It’s taken me _years_ to touch my toes. Did you... did you just snap your spine in half?”

“Is that—I’m getting a little… mmh…” Catra smacks her lips like she’s tasting something delicious. “What’s that— _jealousy?_ ” Still in the stretch, she tilts her head back and sideways to wink at Adora. _The nerve._ “We can’t all be this good, Adora.”

There is just enough flirtation in the comment to buckle one of her knees in her poor attempt at downward dog. It goes down _hard_ , and there will definitely be a bruise. She has to blame the almost-certain redness on her face _solely_ on the position of her head, and then, when she sits back, Catra has (actually, literally) got her foot behind her head. Like it’s _nothing._

It’s horrifying and hot in equal parts. Hot-ifying? _Hornifying._

“I don’t believe that you have bones,” Adora says— _squeaks_ , again—in awe.

“I’m made mostly of rubber bands.”

“Can you do it with your other leg?”

Catra’s impish grin makes Adora regret the question almost instantly. “ _Adora,_ ” she croons, and the tone alone would absolutely fuck her knees if she was standing. Effortlessly, she swings her leg out from behind her head, and leans back on her hands, crossing her ankles. “Why do you want to know?”

 _This_ has not happened before. _None_ of this has ever happened to her previously. Ever.

Adora does not have a set of policies and procedures to field _Flirty Catra_ , and her higher brain functions are rapidly disintegrating. Where is this _coming_ from? Adora isn’t upset—quite the contrary, really—but _bewildered_ might be a better word. Is it the week without interaction? The exhaustion turning them delirious? When left for days, has the intensity of their past conversations crystalized into… _flirting?_ Is that how these things work? Why can't she remember how anything _works?_

Oh, right. She’s supposed to answer her.

“I mean…” She’s at a crossroads. Safe or equally flirty? (She doesn’t have the capacity for either right now.) She waves her hand around vaguely. “You know?”

Catra blinks at her. “ _What?”_

“Yeah… I mean, when you know, you know?”

She’s heard of ostriches burying their heads in the sand. The floor is wooden, but maybe…

“Oh my god, I broke her,” Catra says, her voice strained, lips pursed.

“I’m not—” _I am. She’s done me in._ “You’re distracting me! I’m trying to stretch!”

“ _You_ wanted to hang out.”

“I _do_ , but you have to be like… un-distracting.”

“Oh, yeah, sure. Okay.” It’s not convincing.

Wary, Adora continues with her stretches. Catra’s just there, sitting cross-legged in front of her, watching. She can feel Catra’s eyes on her, and she wants them to _stay_ on her. She knows she should be focusing on her stretches, but all she wants is to stare right back.

“Here,” Catra says, and Adora looks up. She’s already standing, walking over. Adora’s heart starts jackhammering in her chest when Catra comes around behind her. “You’re sinking into your spine. Can I touch you?”

 _Please touch me._ “Okay.” Her heart is already going to explode, so she might as well enjoy her last moments. Catra sets a hand on the front of her shoulder, pulling it back gently. Her hand is warm and firm, and Adora is so grateful for her tank top. Catra’s other hand goes to her lower back and presses upwards. It’s how the stretch is supposed to be done, but Adora has never been happier to make a mistake in her _life._ “Where did you learn this?” she asks, going for coy and landing on prepubescent.

“Yoga.”

It’s so out of left field, Adora doesn’t even realize how strange it is until moments later when she’s switched sides, twisting her whole body around the other way, and letting Catra guide her. She wants some clarity on _Catra_ doing _yoga_ , which might very well mean _Catra_ in _yoga pants_ , but she doesn’t have the words. She barely has enough brain power to keep her breaths coming.

Catra’s voice breaks the silence. “I can, by the way.” Her mouth is right next to her ear. Like _right_ next to her ear. Adora shivers.

Language escapes her already tenuous grasp, and she makes a questioning noise that sounds like she’s being choked. _No. Take a hard right, we are not going back down that road._

“Put both legs behind my head,” Catra clarifies, and it threatens to finish Adora off for good. _Maybe this road isn’t any better._

“Learn that in yoga too?” Adora asks, clearing her throat when her voice comes out gravelly. _God, pull yourself together._

They’re so close, she can feel the vibration of Catra’s chuckle. “No,” she says simply. Adora’s thoughts, against her “best” efforts, take the train to Gutter Town. Catra goes on, “Yoga’s good for stress and… you know, _anger._ ” The admission is strained.

Their position suddenly seems too impersonal. The flirty banter is slipping away. Adora wants to turn around, maybe take Catra’s hand. Instead, Catra pulls her own hands back and resumes her earlier sitting position across from Adora. She finds that she misses Catra’s hands almost instantly, but something in the air has shifted, and for once she respects the cue for space and sits on her damn hands.

“I kind of thought that’s what dumpster smashing was for,” Adora quips. Her mental faculties have returned at Catra’s confession, and the fact that Catra’s still here, still sitting across from her, is a small comfort. “Definitely helped me.”

Catra doesn’t smile, which is a little disconcerting, but she does stare, which is a little _terrifying_. Her two-colored eyes search Adora’s face, and Adora has to actively force herself not to squirm under that gaze.

“It is,” Catra says, and it’s like she’s tasting every word before she says it. “Dumpster smashing is kind of _my_ thing. Yoga was a… suggestion.”

Things become very clear, very quickly.

“Did Angella—”

Catra stiffens. Adora’s eyes go wide, her stomach drops. She considers backpedalling, but it’s already slipped out. “Uh, she said…” The courage to continue wanes when she meets Catra’s eyes. They’re piercing, almost too intense. In any other situation, they’d have her feeling differently.

Adora can’t find the words to elaborate, but the pause speaks volumes. Catra lets a long breath out through her nose. The tie line reappears from her pocket, her fingers set to untying the knots. She looks down at her handiwork, and Adora can see the crease in her brow, but not her face. “I’ve got work to do,” Catra mutters.

“Catra, wait—” Adora grabs a hold of Catra’s wrist before she can turn away completely. Catra _is_ leaving, and Adora has all of two seconds to think up a good response, but her brain hasn’t been doing well at that for a while. “I don’t judge you. For _anything_ that’s happened,” she manages to say.

Catra meets her eyes. There is so much going on behind them that Adora can’t catch a single sentiment. Gently, almost as if in opposition to those emotions behind her eyes, Catra pulls away.

Adora watches her go. She doesn’t try to stop her.

She finishes her stretches, but they don’t do much to calm her.

* * *

Catra does not, will not, _cannot_ make time for this.

She’s already reached her bullshit quota for the _year_ today, and there are only so many more places to compartmentalize emotions. Rage, at least, she can express freely.

“You… lost the sword?”

Catra does not have the bandwidth to process what is happening. She listens, seemingly from another dimension, as Kyle, twenty-one minutes before the show begins on their opening night, divulges this information. Scorpia, Lonnie and Rogelio are at a similar loss, which she registers as reassuring through the haze of both her mind and the literal haze creeping backstage.

“How the _fuck_ did you lose the _sword_ , Kyle?” Catra’s thoughts come right out of Lonnie’s mouth—just as livid as they sound in her head.

“Kyle,” Scorpia starts, more dangerous than Catra has ever imagined her sounding. “Out of every prop, that’s the _only_ one we absolutely, one-hundred percent, definitively can _not_ —”

“ _Hijuelagranputa—”_

 _“Shut up!”_ Catra interjects, but the other three are already whisper-yelling over each other, backing Kyle into a corner. “Shut the fuck _up_ , we need to find it!”

Lonnie turns to Catra. “ _Kyle_ was the last one to have it—”

“I’m _sorry—”_

“You do not get to talk right now, Kyle,” Scorpia says. Catra wholeheartedly agrees. “He had it in the dressing rooms.”

“But came down before half hour to set it,” Lonnie supplies.

“I didn’t—”

“ _Kyle,_ ” Catra snaps, wracking her brain. “Something must have happened between the dressing rooms and the prop table.”

Scorpia pipes up again. “The bathroom maybe? Or—hm. I was just in there. Didn’t see anything.”

“He brought it down here, and I told him to clean up before the show,” Lonnie says, beginning to pace.

“ _Después de eso, el fue afuera a botar—”_

“The trash,” Catra finishes, realizing.

“ _Si, la—_ ” He freezes.

Everyone does. They’re all staring at her.

Catra looks around, bewildered at the complete shift in mood. “ _What?”_ she snaps. “He did, didn’t he? Lonnie sent him to—”

“You understood him?” Lonnie asks slowly, her face beyond incredulous. “You understood what Rogelio was saying?”

“Yes, _obviously?_ Look, go outside, it’s got to be—”

Lonnie steamrolls over her. “You understand Rogelio?”

“ _Me entiendes?”_

Catra has to take a deep breath. “ _Te entiendo. Pero si ustedes siguen con esa mierda, los voy a botar ‘pa la calle._ So can we _please—_ ”

“You _speak_ Spanish?” Kyle blurts _,_ shrinking away behind Rogelio before Catra can glare at him properly.

“ _Yes,_ I—”

The pieces click into place. She looks between all of them, mouths agape. It’s been three years. Rogelio says as much.

“ _Très años—_ ”

“ _Callate._ ” Catra holds a hand right up to his face, deadly serious. Rogelio backs off. “Kyle. Go outside, get the sword. Scorpia, get to the fly rail. Rogelio, top-of-show. Lonnie, go with Kyle. We are at fifteen minutes.”

On that note, she walks off to check presets before anyone can say another word. Her headset crackles to life, Weaver’s nightmare voice calling fifteen.

Her mind settles on _not now_ when she tries to think about the fact that she’s been assuming entirely too much of the crew for the past three years. She just needs a drink, a nap, or a punch in the face. Instead, backstage left, she gets Adora—all tight smiles and nervous energy. Catra can’t handle anything else tonight, not after their interaction earlier, not after the sword fiasco, not after the _language_ _issue_ , but there’s a show to call and a hot idiot in front of her. Adora adjusts her collar as Catra approaches, smoothing down her golden shoulder pads. There’s a little tremble to her hands, but her eyes are focused, for better or worse, on Catra.

“Hey!” Adora says, too bright. Then, her smile dulls. “You okay? I mean, after…”

Catra sighs pointedly, and a snarky comment is born, but immediately dies in her throat. She sees Adora’s face and feels the nerves rolling right off her in waves and she can’t muster anything but a nod and a half-smile. She can’t talk about this now. But they will later. 

“Break a leg,” is all she says, and it takes a lot. Adora’s smile is worth the effort.

* * *

_“For the Rebellion!”_ the ensemble harmonizes.

The mid-show buzz should be kicking in right about now, but for the moment, Adora has bigger fish to fry. She’s got about five more minutes onstage before intermission, and she’s managed to collect two rips in her costume and has somehow broken her fucking headpiece.

She has become the definition of a costumer’s nightmare. For however kooky and nice Razz has been, she is going to _hate_ Adora for putting her outfit through this. For _ruining_ this beautiful costume that had not only meant the world to the old woman, but that had been altered _specifically_ for Adora.

She’s simultaneously beating herself up and listening to the other actors sing about their allegiance to the Rebellion, when the _last_ thought that should be in her head sprints, unbidden, into her conscious mind.

_Prime could be here, and you’re fucking this whole thing up._

That thought almost wrecks her focus completely, but then suddenly there’s a hand in each of hers—it's Bow and Glimmer, standing at her sides. This isn’t in the blocking. But she sees what they’re doing, and she’s grateful. More grateful than she can express while in the middle of a musical number.

It feels like an hour, but they’re getting offstage for intermission, and the roar of applause from behind is only a temporary salve for Adora’s worries. As soon as she’s enveloped by the dim blue light backstage, she forgets the audience and starts mentally cataloguing all the issues at hand.

When she doesn’t see Razz immediately, she starts trying to fix the problem herself. Really, she can’t bother anyone with this—it’s _her_ fault, and by all logic, _her_ issue to fix. There’s clear tape hanging from a hook, a needle and thread on the edge of the prop table, and a dark corner away from prying eyes. Everyone’s so busy in the excitement from the first act and the rush to prepare for the second that it gives her ample time to hide away, unnoticed.

The needle is threaded. _You don’t know how to sew._ It shouldn’t be difficult, there’s just the rip in her side and another along her thigh. _You’ve never sewn in your life._

“Just don’t prick yourself,” she mutters. Poor encouragement. “That’s all this is— _ow!”_

It’s not, actually, just a prick.

“What do you think you are doing?” It’s Razz, whacking her with a broom. _Is that Mermista’s rehearsal broom?_ “Give me that, you silly silly!”

“Razz— _ow—_ I’m sorry, it’s not a big deal, I can— _ow! Stop!”_

“Mistakes happen, dearie!” Razz says, like that’s the end of the conversation. She’s already mending the first seam, and Adora feels completely useless. “What did I tell you?”

She’s said a lot, all of it disjointed, but Adora picks out one conversation. “That this costume was for me,” she says, the weight of this mistake compounding on her multitude of others. “And now I’ve ruined it.”

“No, no, no. Hush hush. I said that you can ask for _help._ ” Razz is somehow already done with the first rip. “Also, that you are very bad at hiding.”

She _had_ said both of those things. “But the care of this costume is _my_ responsibility, Razz. You altered it for me and—”

Razz covers Adora’s mouth with her hand, swipes the headpiece from her and sets it aside. She gets on her tiptoes and grabs Adora’s face, squeezing her cheeks together.

“There are more important things. Don’t make the same mistakes as my Mara.” She smacks one cheek lightly and it makes Adora flinch, but she listens. “Make your own mistakes! Love them! Make them again!”

“Razz…”

Razz sucks her teeth. She’s almost done mending the headpiece. Both rips are closed and the costume looks pristine again. “Also, you should tell people how you feel.” She shoves the repaired headpiece into Adora’s chest and throws her hands in the air. “Time for quick changes! Get back out there, Mara!” She disappears into the darkness backstage before Adora can so much as think to respond.

“That woman terrifies me,” comes a voice from behind.

Adora recognizes it immediately. “Catra.” She turns to face the ASM, trying not to let her relief show too obviously. That weary smile before the show had assuaged some level of fear, but still, after earlier… She opens her mouth to speak, but Catra holds up her hand.

“Later,” she says, and it’s not angry. “I’ve got to change your batteries.”

Adora gives Catra her back without a word. It’s a fumbling, awkward process, but Catra wrestles the transmitter out of her costume with both too many and too few touches to the now exposed skin of Adora’s back.

Hoping against hope that opening her stupid mouth will alleviate some of the awkwardness, Adora speaks. It’s a question that’s been on her mind for some time, and for some reason, _now_ seems like a good moment to ask. “Am I going to see you at the party?”

She means the opening night party, of course. A tradition amongst theater folks to celebrate their first performance. That, and also an excuse to get _plastered_.

“Never been before,” Catra responds, gruff, her knuckles brushing against Adora’s skin. “Haven’t really wanted to.”

Adora isn’t entirely sure where they stand after their most recent interactions, but she has to try. “Come on, Catra. I bet even _you’ll_ have fun.”

“Wow, you sure know how to make a girl feel special.”

It’s snarky but not angry, and Adora sees an opening, only possible because she doesn’t have to _look_ at Catra when she says it. “Well, it’d be really special to me if you went.”

The hands at her back freeze. In the platform-heeled boots of her costume, she’s a couple heads taller than Catra, so she can feel when the breath leaves her in a _whoosh_ against the open diamond of skin between her shoulder blades. She shivers, and can’t hide it. They’re too close, and it’s all too obvious why she’s reacted the way she has.

She’s about to turn around when the faint noise of a headset clicking to life comes from behind. Catra’s hands leave her back. “Thank you five,” she mutters, like it’s the last thing she wants to say. Adora turns around, and their eyes meet. “We’re at five minutes,” Catra says, and her faint frown softens into something more akin to a coy smile. “I’ve gotta go. I might see you around.”

It’s as close to a “yes” as she’s going to get.

* * *

She steals shit from the theater all the time.

The frequency of her theft, unfortunately, doesn’t make her feel any less guilty for rummaging around the costume shop after the show, having avoided _everyone_ in the frantic rush to get her post-show duties out of the way.

Now she’s here in the dark, amongst the mountains of fabric… looking for a suit.

It feels a little stupid, but she’s doing this. She’s decided that she’s going to this stupid party if for no other reason than to see what it’s like.

 _Who the hell are you trying to fool?_ She’s going because she wants to spend time with Adora.

Even before, after Adora had let slip that she’d spoken to Angella, that she very obviously knows the one piece of information Catra _hadn’t_ wanted to share, she’d been genuinely surprised when she hadn’t felt even a single ounce of anger. The _fight_ has seemingly disappeared from her fight or flight response. Flight, however, is something she has gotten _very_ good at.

It’s not, like, a _great_ thing.

And it _should_ be the first thing she does when the lights flick on. What actually happens is that she’s stuck, immobile atop a mostly-hidden table with a crumpled dress shirt in one hand and an iron in the other, like a gay deer in headlights.

“Here for pie?”

“ _Fuck_ , Razz,” Catra breathes, slouching over in relief and resignation. She’s been caught. “I was, uh…”

“Ah! Looking for a date outfit!” Razz shuffles over to her. “But you’re so dusty! Go! Take a bubble bath. When you come back—ha- _hah!_ Madame Razz will have something for yooou!”

“It’s not a—”

“Bubble bath! Go, go!”

There’s no arguing with Razz.

So, the theater doesn’t have a _bathtub_. At least, not one that works. However, there _is_ a shower, and in the restroom mirror, Catra realizes that she looks a goddamn mess, so she takes Razz’s advice. When she comes back, there’s a clean section of table, on which Razz has laid out a black suit and dress shoes. The old woman is nowhere to be found, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t hiding amongst the piles of fabric. Catra changes behind the shower curtain in the corner (the costume shop’s poor excuse for a dressing area), and when she emerges, Razz has materialized again, and is brushing dust off her fossil of a computer monitor with her broom.

She spins around, and throws the broom in the air. It lands with a _thump_ on a pile of clothes. “So nice!” She procures a floor-length mirror from _somewhere_ and drags it in front of Catra. “Adora is such a nice woman, you know. So are you.”

Catra has learned, from similar encounters with Razz over the years, that she is either magic, or _very_ good at reading people. Or both. So she doesn’t retaliate, doesn’t question how Razz has come to these conclusions. Besides, she knows that Adora is a nice woman. She’s a hell of a lot more than just _nice._

For once, she just lets herself admire the figure she cuts in the mirror. It’s been a long time since she’s looked any better than a _dumpster fire_ , and Razz, for all her quirks, certainly knows how to dress people. The jacket is comfortable and breathable, with slits along her sides for a little flair. The pants conform perfectly to her legs, and the shit-kicking boots… the whole outfit makes her feel _powerful._ She leaves her hair down, and it completes the look.

“What are you still doing here?” Razz squawks, throwing her hands in the air. “Go find Adora!”

When she hesitates, Razz starts shoving her out of the costume shop. “I’m going!”

“Go more, go faster!”

She _goes_. On the way out, she checks herself in the lobby bathroom, just quick glance at the reflection in the glass of the empty box office window, and then she’s out in front of the theater. The night air is cool against the exposed skin of her collarbone. Across the street, music is coming from the bar, a few well-dressed patrons loitering and smoking out front. The Crimson Waste has never been a black-tie kind of place, but she’s walked past a few opening night parties before. Back then, she’d thought that the partygoers looked pretentious and out-of-place, even outside. She’d resented the noise, and the people, and the very concept of a party—but now.

Now the tables have turned.

She’s actually _going_ to the party.

_The less you think about this, the easier it’ll be._

The bar door swings open, and the cacophony of voices, music and other assorted noises all but slaps Catra in the face. The bar is packed, fuller than she’s ever seen it before. She usually avoids the place when it looks like this.

“Catra!” someone says excitedly right next to her. It’s Entrapta, voice recorder in-hand. “Can you say something you might hear in a setting like this? Maybe something vulgar or perhaps… a retching noise?”

The recorder is _way_ too close to Catra’s face. “Uh… fuck?”

Entrapta nods, accepting the half-assed contribution. “I’m making a foley collection for the upcoming season! If you see anyone getting sick, come find me—” She cuts herself off with a gasp, grabs Catra’s forearm and leans _way_ in, like she’s about to divulge a state secret. “Catra! Would you be willing to get into… a _bar fight?”_

“Okay, so _no_ ,” she says firmly, trying to pry her arm out of Entrapta’s surprisingly strong grip. “If you let me go, I’ll look for people that are throwing up. How’s that sound?”

“ _Perfect!”_ Entrapta trills, bustling off to bother others. _Thank god_.

“Catra, you made it!”

Never in her life has she wanted to be popular. _This_ is why.

It’s Scorpia now, with her arms open wide, much to Catra’s dismay. There’s no avoiding the hug, no skipping the feeling like her organs are being extruded.

“Ah, Wildcat, I _knew_ you’d come! I was telling everyone, I said: ‘Just you all wait! It’s not a party with just one ASM, and we are going to _par-tay_ tonight!’ And then… well, then no one believed me, but look at you! Here, now!” Scorpia has yet to let go. Catra misses solid ground and not being crushed. “Let’s go say hi to the crew!”

She sets Catra down, but not to free her. Her massive hand is on Catra’s back, directing her to the end of the bar. Rogelio is there alone, guarding several large drinks.

“Rogelio! I told you she was coming!” Scorpia announces, picking up one of the larger, fruitier drinks, which is topped with a pink umbrella. She takes a sip, looking between the two of them. “This is so exciting, you know? You guys really _bonded_ earlier, I saw it. We all saw it.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You both speak Spanish! That is _fantastic._ I’ve always wanted to pick up a new language! Do you think you could teach me something, maybe? I’m a pretty quick learner, if I do say so myself.” Scorpia chuckles to herself, right into her drink. “It could be anything!”

Until today, Catra had made the apparently _idiotic_ assumption that Lonnie and Kyle spoke it too. “ _Vete ‘pa carajo,_ ” she grumbles, mostly to herself. If she’d known she could have been insulting three quarters of the crew without their knowledge, she might have taken advantage of it sooner.

Rogelio catches it and laughs.

Scorpia hears too, unfortunately. “Ooh, let me try! _Vee—_ ”

“ _Maybe_ not.” Catra holds her hand up to Scorpia’s face. “How about you start with ‘ _hola_ ’ and we can go from there.”

Scorpia does exactly as she’s told, and starts trying to imitate Catra’s accent. The genuine, earnest attempt is such a _Scorpia Thing_ , Catra finds that the source of her earlier irritation is not actually her colleague.

She takes a quick sweeping glance around the space. Most of the crew is scattered around: Entrapta with her voice recorder, Wrong Hordak in tow; Huntara and her scary women at the other end of the bar; even _Weaver_ and _Hordak_ have shown up—they’re hiding in a dark corner, probably plotting a fucking murder. She makes a mental note to keep a fifty foot radius between her and them. At another end of the room, Micah and Angella have holed up with the wealthy lesbians that give to the theater—Spinnerella and Netossa. They’re good people. They’re probably the ones who dug the Playhouse out of its financial grave. Regardless, Catra would rather avoid their booth mates.

As she does her sweep, the cast starts to trickle in. Mermista bodies Sea Hawk through the door as he tries singing to the patrons outside, and Double Trouble follows behind the two of them, amping Sea Hawk up until he bursts into song again. The tune sends Mermista directly to the bar for a shot. Perfuma is next, and Scorpia doesn’t even finish her run-on sentence to Rogelio when she notices Perfuma before she is across the room, holding the door open. The two of them are blushing like idiots and it would be absolutely intolerable if it wasn’t gay.

That seems to be all of the new additions.

Catra’s heart sinks when the door stays closed in the following minutes, and she swallows her disappointment with a shot of tequila.

She makes up her mind. If the door doesn’t open in the next ten minutes, she’s getting the hell out—

As if in response to her complaints, the door swings open. It’s Glimmer, in a flowy pink dress. She’s— _obviously—_ covered in glitter _._ A hand holds the door open from behind her. It’s Bow, who is incapable of covering his stomach, and is in a baby blue suit and matching bowtie. They look like they belong in a candy store.

For a moment, Catra wonders if Adora hasn’t come with them. Or if she’s even coming at all. She’s about to call it quits. She’s about to take a drink for the road and _leave._ She feels like Bobo the damn fool for hoping so hard.

And then, she walks in. 

If there wasn’t skin and muscle keeping Catra’s bones in her face, her jaw would be on the floor.

Adora’s in a sleeveless white jumpsuit that makes Catra consider laying down on the ground and dying because she’s now seen the face of god. Her arms and shoulders, thick with muscle Catra has been so regrettably close to and yet _so_ unable to touch, are on full display. The jumpsuit fits her like a second skin, and all of the curves usually obscured by baggy muscle tees or that stupid red jacket are _there._ They’re _right there_. What’s more, she turns around to greet Mermista and Sea Hawk, and Catra gets to discover that not only is the outfit sleeveless, it’s almost completely _backless._

Honestly, she might already have died.

Rogelio nudges her, jerks his head over to where Adora is standing. “ _Mira quien es,_ ” he says, coy and encouraging. She stays put. Apparently she’s been silent for too long, because he all but shoves her. “ _Hagas algo!”_

She shoves back. “ _Bruto!”_ He laughs at her, but she’s having none of it. He’s being a little _shit._ “Asshole. I’m not going to _do anything._ There’s nothing to _do._ ”

Lonnie walks up. “He bothering you?” She’s in a well-fitted cocktail dress with Kyle at her side. Catra barely suppresses an eye roll when she realizes that both of their dresses match Rogelio’s deep red suit. They all look great, but Catra isn’t going to say that. She has a reputation.

“ _Yes_ ,” Catra hisses, slapping Rogelio’s shoulder away as it comes in for another nudge. “Get him away from me.”

“If you promise to translate, I’ll keep him occupied.” Lonnie and Rogelio exchange a look, and then one with Kyle that makes Catra want to record a heaving noise for Entrapta _._ “Deal?”

“Fine, whatever.” She fixes Rogelio with a glare. “Sue me for assuming _que tus parejas te han entendido por tres años,_ or—” She looks to Lonnie. “How long have you been dating?”

“What did you say?” Kyle asks, bewildered.

“Eight months,” Lonnie responds, “and also yes, what did you say?”

“You’ve been dating for eight months and you haven’t understood a word he’s said?”

“ _Entienden poco,”_ Rogelio clarifies.

"He says you understand a little. I don’t believe that.”

“I understand _that_ much,” Lonnie scoffs.

“I, uh… I don’t. To be honest,” Kyle admits.

Catra almost laughs. “I guess love is deaf.”

“I prefer _‘knows no language_ ’.” Lonnie crosses her arms with a lofty smile. “I’d say we make do.”

 _Nope._ “I’m not touching that. I don’t like that smile.”

“ _You_ don’t have to touch it. _We—_ ”

Catra jams her fingers in her ears. “ _Wow, Lonnie, I guess I’m deaf too."_ It’s probably obnoxious how loud she’s being, but this is not a conversation she has ever, in her entire life, wanted to be a part of. Luckily her ( _ugh_ ) theatrics go on until there’s a distraction. “ _Oh, look.”_ She takes her fingers out of her ears. “It’s Scorpia and Perfuma. Why don’t you all make horrible conversation together?”

The women are so close, there’s physically no room to question what’s going on between them. They do make a handsome couple, however, and enough of that horrible conversation for Catra to slip away for a shot of liquid courage. She catches a glimpse of Adora at the far side of the bar, laughing like she had all those days ago, back on the roof. She needs the tequila.

It’s a damn gay miracle she’d managed to be so bold earlier. Better to not test her luck again. She shoots the drink, chases it with salt and lime, and the moment she turns back to where Adora is, their eyes meet.

Instantly, the smile that crosses Adora’s lips lights up the whole room. She drops what she's doing and begins making her way over.

 _Who_ am _I anymore?_ Catra thinks to herself, furthering her identity crisis by accepting the subsequent hug Adora wraps her in.

Adora jolts back after a long moment Catra _would_ have been content to draw out. “Sorry!” she says, but her hands are still on Catra’s arms. “I… I know you’re not a fan of hugs. I was just… uh…”

“It’s fine,” Catra responds. Adora’s nervous bumbling and the warmth from the alcohol soothe Catra’s nerves, if only for the moment. “Who says I’m not a fan of hugs?”

“Well… _you_ , I guess. Earlier—”

“ _Earlier_ you were crushing my ribs. You and Scorpia seem unable to leave my bones intact.”

“I thought you said you were made of rubber bands.”

Catra smirks. “Touché.”

Content with her little victory, Adora crosses her arms and takes a goofy, triumphant stance. Or rather, it _would_ be goofy if her crossed arms didn’t make her biceps even more pronounced.

Catra signals for two drinks. “Beer?”

Adora wiggles her eyebrows. “Oh, are you buying me a drink?”

“Not if you ask me like _that._ ”

“How am I supposed to—” Adora contorts her face into an exaggerated frown. “Hey, you,” she growls, hunching her shoulders over like some kind of large, stupid animal, “get me a fuckin’ beer, why don’t ya?”

“…The hell is _that?_ Are you—Scorpia meets a werewolf?” She wants to play it cool, but a bemused smile is stuck to her face. “Like, Bizzaro Scorpia and Bigfoot’s lovechild?”

“I don’t know, is it working?” She really leans into the character, and it is so dumb and _so_ endearing. “Gimme that beer, you jerk.”

“Let me get this right. You think I’m into Evil Were-Scorpia and half-assed name-calling?”

Adora doesn’t move out of her neanderthal posture. She raises her eyebrows in question.

“God, Adora, I guess you’re right,” she deadpans. “This fucking”—she gestures to Adora’s whole person—“ _whatever_ this is, is getting me really hot and bothered.”

Catra hands her a beer, and Adora snaps back to herself with a grin. “Great! I’ll make a note.” She takes a sip, and mimes writing on the bar while she dictates her imaginary note. “Note to self: Catra likes weird role-play. Buy Halloween costume.”

It’s so lighthearted, Catra can almost ignore the undertones. _Almost._ Adora takes another sip of her drink, eyeing Catra over the rim of the glass. Her blue, _blue_ eyes are sparkling with delight, even in the dim light of the bar. Catra finds herself at a loss for words. She follows Adora’s lead, hoping to find a witty comeback in her pint glass.

“Where’d you get your suit?” Adora asks.

It’s overly-casual, a sharp tonal shift that unbalances Catra for a moment. “Stole it,” she lies; it’s not quite as smooth as she’d like it to be.

“You didn’t.”

“You think I don’t steal?”

“I think you’d get _caught._ ”

“Woah, thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Adora laughs and takes another drink. “Fine, I’m sure you’re a great thief.” Her gaze rakes over Catra’s body. It’s not casual. “It looks great on you.”

The room is several degrees hotter. “Thanks,” is all she says, because language has almost entirely escaped her.

“I like the…” It happens so fast, Catra doesn’t have time for a proper reaction. Adora’s fingers go to the openings at her side, and for a single, blissfully terrifying moment, they touch the bare skin at her side.

It is so _frustrating_ , the way her body reacts to Adora, and it’s even _worse_ when Adora makes simple touches like this so easily. With anyone else, she would have slapped them, thrown her drink in their face, pitched a fit. With Adora, she’s so overwhelmed by the sudden desire to just rip the suit jacket off, she has to dig her fingers into her palms to stifle the impulse. She reminds herself four times that feeling this way about a coworker can _only_ end in disaster.

But then Adora’s eyes meet hers again, and there’s a long beat where the air is sucked right out of the room. Catra wracks her empty brain for a response, for a single _thought_ , but nothing comes up. It’s quick, quick enough to miss, but Adora’s eyes flick down to her lips, and there’s no question. The intent is so painfully obvious, Catra doesn’t have time to think about all her reservations, all the reasons against—she so suddenly, so _violently_ just _wants_ , and it’s impossible to ignore.

A continuous loop of “ _should I”s_ clouds her judgement. She needs to do something about this.

“There you are!”

 _Furious_ is too tame a word.

Adora’s expression falls, and she tacks on what Catra would like to assume is a fake smile when Sparkles appears and flings her arm around Adora’s shoulders. If looks could kill, there would be two dead bodies at Adora’s feet.

“Glitter.”

The shorter woman’s eyes narrow. “Three shots ago, I would have curb-stomped you.”

Catra can’t help it. She grins at the challenge. “Let me catch up and we’ll meet out back.”

Glimmer rolls her eyes. “You wouldn’t stand a damn chance.”

Adora is looking between them like she’s watching a car crash. Catra acknowledges her with a nod. “Who are you putting money on, Adora?”

“ _What?_ No”—she holds her hands up, frantic—“ _please_ don’t get into a fight.”

Into her field of vision, a small black box creeps up from below. The three of them look down. It’s Entrapta, under the bar. She flips her large glasses up into her hair and looks up at them innocently. “Oh, don’t mind me. I’m just collecting some audio for next season.”

Glimmer and Adora are completely at a loss. Catra just smiles at the designer. “Meet me and Glimmer out back in a few hours.”

Adora goes white as a sheet. “Wait—”

“Excellent!” Entrapta trills, and she’s gone.

“I’m not fighting you in the alley.”

“Aw, come on, Sparkles, I just told Entrapta,” Catra croons.

Glimmer’s frown deepens. She inhales very pointedly, and turns bodily towards Adora. “Adora,” she begins through gritted teeth, “we are having a beer pong tournament. We need another player. Join us, why don’t you?”

“Well, I was just…” Adora looks between the two of them. Catra can see the panic in her eyes. It’s pretty cute, honestly.

“You’re missing out,” Catra singsongs, “I was the dorm champion back in college.”

“Well, great! Why, uh—” Glimmer is glaring at Adora, but she forges on. “Why don’t we all play?”

Glimmer’s nostrils flare. She shoots daggers in Catra’s direction. Catra presses her lips together, a blatantly conspicuous attempt to smother her amusement. Glimmer _hates_ it, which is so very funny.

She looks at Adora, who’s got her eyes back on Catra. “Fine,” she grits out. She jabs a finger at Catra. “If you cost us the game, so help me…”

“Don’t you worry your sparkly little head, Glitter.” Catra gives her a toothy grin as Adora all but drags the woman away. “I’m good with my hands.” She’s proud of that one—it’s a twofer. Glimmer is ready to kill and Adora misses a step.

Thing is, Catra hadn’t been lying. She sinks every shot she takes.

From the other team, Sea Hawk misses and earns himself an eye roll from Mermista and a few encouraging words from Scorpia and Perfuma. The other team is still losing, though, and it’s pissing Glimmer off. She can’t deny Catra’s ability.

“I can’t believe this,” Glimmer grumbles as Catra knocks out another one.

“Great shot, Catra!” Bow says. “This is going a _lot_ better than Perfuma’s birthday—” He stops dead when Glimmer glares at him. “This is going _just as well_ as Perfuma’s birthday party!”

They end up winning, of course, and the opposing team is both drunk _and_ stupid enough to challenge them again.

The entirety of the second game, Adora’s eyes are on her. It’s so distracting that she misses, which loosens the scowl on Glimmer’s face. She can let her have this _one._

They win again, thanks mostly to Catra, and Glimmer has had another couple of shots, so she actually gives Catra a (very small, very tight) smile. Bow claps her on the back and buys her a drink, and Adora… Adora’s still looking at her. She’s barely buzzed, but with each successful shot, her gaze gets more and more intense. By the time Bow and Glimmer are going off to console the other team, three of whom are actually crying, Adora is looking at her like she wants… well, exactly that. Like she _wants._

There’s not enough alcohol in her system to fully digest the intent behind that look, but every fiber of her being _wants_ to.

“Hidden talent?” Adora asks. She’s smiling, but it’s a thin veil.

“Beer pong? I don’t know about _hidden”_ —Catra scoffs—“or a _talent_ , really.”

“I’d say it is,” she says, light as air. “Have any others?”

Oh, it is a _loaded_ question. “What, this and getting my legs behind my head not good enough for you?”

Adora’s cheeks flush. “I didn’t say that.”

“What _are_ you saying?”

She’s quiet. The bar around them is still bustling with drunken activity, but there they are, seemingly in a world of their own. The strange juxtaposition is enough to ramp up her anxiety, and conflicting emotions bubble up to the surface. She tries to catalogue them, tries to understand a single one. Adora, however, is distractingly beautiful. Even in the dingy lighting of the bar, she looks surreal.

Adora is so close. Catra doesn’t realize that they’ve been gravitating towards each other. Like the slow pull of the tide, like a moonrise. If she wanted to, Catra could count every single one of her mascara-darkened eyelashes, and trace the fine lines between her eyebrows. Catra knows exactly what’s going to happen. She feels her pulse hammering in her neck, the inevitability tingling at her fingertips, making her itch to move.

Her vision tunnels. It’s just Adora, now. No bar, no people, just her.

Adora leans in.

Adora kisses her.

It’s so gentle. It’s what she’s wanted for weeks, and it’s ten, twenty, _a thousand_ times better than she could have ever imagined. But Catra, against what she will later discover is her _better_ judgement, does what she does best.

She breaks away, and she runs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :))
> 
> Sooo, if you speak Spanish, you might have caught on to what Rogelio is saying. I am but one dumb Cuban, but luckily I have plenty of Latinx friends that helped me in making his country of origin _confusingly ambiguous!_ I can’t say each of the things he says are completely specific to these countries, but the friends I asked are from these places. Also, some are curse words and don’t translate well, so be warned. 
> 
> [Here's a link to the translations](https://bazaarwords.tumblr.com/post/627798892098060288/translations)
> 
> [Catra’s outfit](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/00/b7/be/00b7be066d0c513b59e69eb342091839.jpg) / [Catra’s shoes](https://taftclothing.com/collections/boots/products/the-dylan-boot-in-black-new) / [Adora’s outfit](https://www.lulus.com/products/thinking-out-loud-white-backless-jumpsuit/374312.html)


	9. Act Four: Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the rating has changed, so if you're not into that, scroll through the part denoted with "~"
> 
> that being said, this is the longest chapter, so... enjoy?

“ _Catra!”_

This _cannot_ be happening.

After the initial shock, she’s barreling through the crowded bar, a little uncoordinated from the glass of beer, but also from the sheer _panic_ welling up in her chest. It earns her some looks, but she can’t be fucked to care.

 _What were you thinking? How could you do this? Why didn’t you_ ask _, you idiot?_

She stumbles out into the night, almost running headlong into someone outside. “Did you see a woman come by here?” Her voice sounds wild, even to her own ears. “Black suit, brown hair?”

They warily point her across the street to the theater, and she bolts over without even thanking them. She can beat herself up about her lack of manners later. Now—now, she just needs to—

“ _Catra!”_ she calls once she’s made it into the lobby. “Catra, I’m so sorry!”

No response. If she doesn’t keep moving, she’s just going to throw up or fall down right where she’s standing. How has she managed to ruin this so _perfectly?_ Hadn’t they been flirting? Hadn’t it been clear?

The first two of the three sets of double doors to the main stage are locked, but the final pair swings open with no effort, hitting the wall with a _bang_ Adora would normally be very concerned about at any other time, but right now she doesn’t have the capacity for any other worries. Her focus has narrowed down to _finding Catra_ , but a single, rational thought gives her momentary pause: _Is_ chasing _the woman you’ve just crossed a_ massive _boundary with a great idea?_

“No,” she says out loud, to herself. Then, against her better judgement, she yells, “ _Catra!”_

Her voice echoes in the empty theater. The ghost light casts an eerie glow onstage, but even a decade-old fear of the dark has to take a backseat to her current self-flagellation. The frustration in her chest bubbles over. She groans loudly into the silence of the theater, but it’s not exactly the emotional release she needs. It’s all she can do to stop herself from breaking down in this dark and, quite frankly, _terrifying_ theater.

From above her, there’s the creak of metal. Quiet as the noise is, it pierces the stillness like a bullet, loud enough to make her jump.

“… _Catra?”_ Half stage whisper, half squeak. If it’s not Catra, it’s one-hundred percent a theater ghost and Adora is _not_ equipped to deal with a theater ghost when she’s having a _crisis_.

There’s a world-weary sigh from the same place, overhead. “Hey, Adora.”

In the dark it’s hard to focus on the catwalks above, but the silhouette of Catra’s figure stands out, dark against the gloom. If not for her voice, Adora could easily assume that the image above is, in fact, a ghost. Suddenly, the prospect of talking to her scares Adora many times more than the supernatural.

Her two-colored eyes glint like a cat’s; a stupid joke comes and goes, and Adora’s response is just, “Hi.”

_Hi?_

On stage, she can memorize a script and recite it without pause. Her lifelong problem: she’s only ever been good with other people’s words. It sucks at the present moment because she really needs to be good at her _own_.

“I’m sorry,” she blurts, abnormally loud in the dead air. She feels, in the moment, very much like she’s trying to patch a hole in a sinking ship. “I’m so sorry, Catra. That was really, _really_ stupid of me.”

A rumbling noise comes from above. It takes a moment, but then Adora catches it for what it is: Catra is _laughing._ If the _running off_ hadn’t wounded her pride beyond repair, getting _laughed at_ by the woman she’s completely enamored with is certainly the nail in the ol’ Coffin of Self-Esteem.

“Adora—” Catra huffs, and even though Adora can’t make out her face, she can hear the smile in her voice. She might as well throw in the towel on ever thinking about anyone romantically ever again, because this is like a punch to the solar plexus, like a knife in the leg, like— “You _really_ have to stop apologizing.”

She doesn’t even process the comment. “What do you _mean?_ ” It comes out defensive as all hell, but she’s _hurt_ and Catra is not making this easy. “I crossed a line! Whether or not you _accept_ it is…” She scoffs, derisive. “Well, it’s up to you.”

“Come up here,” Catra says, which isn’t really a response to her outburst. “Ladder’s house right.”

She might be hurt, but she’s in no position to argue. Not when she might have a chance to explain herself fully.

She finds the ladder and climbs up on the catwalk. It’s surprisingly clean, given the ancient lights hanging from the rails. Catra’s waiting for her, forearms propped against the guard rail, looking out into the audience. Adora can’t help but think about just how good she looks in her suit, how good she’d looked while she was kicking everyone’s asses at beer pong...

It’s not the right thing to be thinking when Catra’s about to let her down.

“So?” Adora says, steeling herself. She keeps her distance, staying by the ladder. Better to do this quickly, like ripping off a bandage. “Is this you accepting my apology or not?”

There’s a moment of silence, and then Catra forces out, “This is me… apologizing.” She sounds like someone’s strangling her.

“…What?”

Catra takes a deep, steadying breath. “For running off. That was… really, _really_ stupid of me.”

They might just be a few simple words, but they’re sincere—no trace of her signature snark. It gives Adora pause. The disappointment of what’s to come isn’t gone, but the hurt ebbs. “Well, um… this is me… accepting your apology.”

Catra nods. It’s silent. It’s awkward. It’s more awkward than that very first meeting in the black box.

They can’t just stand around like this in forever, though. She takes a step back. “Look, we’re both sorry, so let’s just accept that we’re both kind of stupid and move on—”

“You scare me,” Catra interrupts, too loud.

It stops Adora dead in her tracks. Instantly, she feels the weight with which it lands on her chest. She opens and closes her mouth a few times, shell-shocked, humiliated. Catra finally turns to look when Adora doesn’t respond, and her eyes widen like she’s seen that theater ghost Adora had been so worried about. 

She grimaces like she’s been kicked in the shin. “No, not— _f_ _uck._ You don’t _scare_ me. You…” She lets out a forceful breath and refuses to meet Adora’s eyes, instead opting to glare at the ceiling. “You make me feel, like, a lot of shit. And that’s… _scary_ —I don’t know.” The last few words tumble out in a rush.

Adora may well be the most oblivious person in the world, but, thank god, even _she’s_ not that dense. 

The weight vanishes, replaced by a certain lightness that threatens to sweep her right off the catwalk. The disappointment is gone too, replaced by hope rushing into her chest like a torrent of water. “What kind of shit?”

Catra sighs through her nose, and _finally_ meets Adora’s eyes. “You _know_ what kind of shit.”

“I think you should tell me.”

“You’re _being_ a shit.”

Adora can’t help the grin forcing its way across her face. “Why won’t you tell me?”

The corner of Catra’s mouth quirks up. “Cut the shit.”

“I can’t cut any shit until I know what _kind_ —”

“The gay shit, Adora!” Catra shouts, her arms flung out to her sides. “Happy?”

There is a large, doofy grin on her face. She can feel it, but she can’t remove it. “Wow.” The word feels reverent, but she sounds like a teenage boy.

Catra scoffs. “Don’t ruin it.”

“Ruin _what?”_ Adora laughs, giddy. “Were you trying to set the mood up here on this spooky catwalk?”

“ _Spooky?_ Jeez, Adora, what a word.”

“You telling me that you have feelings for me doesn’t really line up with you giving me shit.” Adora crosses her arms, makes a face, and shrugs with as much of her upper body as she can. It’s dizzying excitement that’s fueling her now. She’s probably making herself look like an idiot, but no one is allowed to blame her right now.

Suddenly, the awkward tension slips away in a heap, replaced by something much more palatable. “Thing is,” Catra begins, coming closer now, “the two aren’t mutually exclusive.”

The energy that’s been between them all this time is suddenly everywhere again. Adora can feel it in the air, under her skin, in her bones. The trajectory of this night has taken several sharp turns, but she recognizes the feeling now for what it is.

_Intent._

She’s hooked up before. She’s had feelings before, too, but this is something entirely different. The feelings that she has for Catra don’t _scare_ her, but the intensity with which she feels them… is a _lot_. She’s given from that same, deep place before, and every time, it’s landed her in trouble. This intent is different. _Catra_ is different. She meets Adora where she is, doesn’t ask her to be anything that she isn’t. It’s a revelation to discover that, unlike so many other times, Adora hasn’t been trying desperately to hold on to nothing, hasn’t been stuck in a Sisyphean loop of apologizing for her needs like with every single woman in her past.

On an emotional level, the connection she feels when they’re together is so profound, so far removed from the others, it’s a little disorienting. Maybe it’s the newness, maybe it’s the powerful surge of attraction. Whatever the case, Adora wants to know more, wants to see how far this goes.

On a _physical_ level, well. They haven’t gotten that far. The unspoken “ _yet”_ in that statement makes Adora’s palms sweat.

“You’re saying I’ve had to endure all your shit because you like me?”

“It’s not because I _like_ you.” Catra’s close now. “And _endure_ , Adora? You’ve been _enduring_ me?”

“I’ve been through a lot,” Adora quips, but the lightness she’d hoped to use is nowhere to be found. She has to clear her throat to continue. “I’d like a formal apology.”

They’re so close. Catra’s gaze wanders over her face, lands on her lips, and drags slowly back up to meet Adora’s eyes. The heat in that look sends her heart into overdrive. She wants to kiss her again so _badly_ , but she’s holding the impulse back, waiting for approval.

“A written apology?” Catra asks, almost a purr. The gold and blue of her eyes is hypnotizing. “Or would you prefer oral?”

It’s not a good joke, but Adora’s brain is barely reminding her to inhale every few seconds. It doesn’t stand a chance of processing the shitty humor in the question without nearly shutting down at the word “ _oral”_.

“Prefer oral,” her mouth parrots without consulting with her brain.

Catra scoffs, but she’s smiling. “If I kiss you, are you going to kiss back, or are you going to go into a coma?”

_Say something smart—_

“Kiss me?” she blurts.

— _for the love of god._

The request is fulfilled. Catra’s been teasing, joking, but when Adora’s stupid mouth manages those two words, Catra surges forward. It’s all direction, all intention. Their lips meet for the second time and, instead of going into a coma, Adora is electrified.

Her hands are in Catra’s hair before she even begins kissing back in earnest, and Catra’s hands are on her arms, her shoulders, gripping like her life depends on it.

It’s like, this whole time Catra’s been picking up on all the little cues Adora’s been giving off. Small, mostly inadvertent clues about the things she likes, the ways she wants to be touched. Either that, or Catra’s just reading her mind. Adora doesn’t have the presence of mind to wonder if Catra can hear her thoughts, especially not when her hands move to Adora’s back, fingers playing along the sensitive skin she’s touched before. Back then it had been by accident. That weeks-old reaction backstage had been inappropriate at best. _This_ time, the way the movement robs her of breath, given their current situation, is completely justified.

She sighs hard against Catra’s lips, already weak in the knees—god, what is this woman _doing_ to her?

Catra smiles. Adora can feel it against her lips. She pulls back a fraction of an inch and Adora is instantly ready to grovel and beg her to come back. “So _that’s_ what that was.”

“Uh?” Adora responds eloquently. She can’t tear her eyes away from Catra’s lips. She knows they’re saying something. What is it? Why aren’t they still kissing _her_ lips?

The corner of Catra’s mouth quirks up, and she can’t _not—_ Adora has to kiss her again. She feels Catra’s sharp intake of breath, the fluidity with which Catra tugs her closer, the press of their bodies.

And Catra elaborates on her comment. With her hands.

All of the nerve endings in Adora’s body congregate between her shoulder blades as Catra strokes the skin there. It’s absent-minded, but it makes Adora shiver so violently she loses her place against Catra’s lips.

She’s an animated pile of Jello; she’s a wacky tube man, just like Catra had said. She presses their foreheads together and tries in vain to compose herself, and that soft gesture is the eye of the storm pooling low in her stomach, deep in her chest. They’ve only _kissed_ and already she’s lost her grip on basic motor function. It should be embarrassing to be reacting like this to so little, but Catra meets her eyes with an intensity that again makes Adora lose touch with reality, and she suddenly has no idea how to feel shame.

“That’s crazy,” Catra says, and whatever she’s referring to doesn’t _sound_ crazy.

This time, Adora takes a moment to respond. “What?” Her voice is gravelly, her diction needs work. Any acting coach would be disgusted.

“This.” To illustrate her point, she rakes her nails over Adora’s back.

She can’t hold it in. She _moans_. It’s not _news_ to her that her back is sensitive, but it’s never been like this. It’s never been this _good._

Catra kisses her again before she can look like even more of a desperate idiot, thank god. Adora takes the kiss as a mercy, but it's obvious after the first moment that it’s anything _but_. Catra kisses her like she can’t stop, like she’s driving a car with no brakes. Yes, Adora’s wanted and _been_ wanted before, but not like _this_. Not with so singular a focus, so deliberate an intention.

Her head is spinning when they part, and although she needs to breathe, it comes second to everything Catra is doing to her. Her legs are already weak, and Catra’s mouth along her jaw, along her neck, buckles them completely. Miraculously, she grabs onto the railing behind her, surprised she has the wherewithal to keep herself upright.

It becomes plainly obvious that they’re going to have to move to a flat surface or else Adora will be taking a dive into the empty house below.

Every ounce of her concentration goes into just _standing_ as Catra worries at the skin of her neck with her teeth. It’s so much stimulation and yet so _little._ She hasn’t had the opportunity to really touch Catra yet. It’s a strange turn of events, given that she’s always been the one to be… well, _giving._

With one hand holding herself up, she slides the other under the lapel of Catra’s suit jacket. Her skin is warm and smooth and she hears Catra’s breath hitch, her lips still pressed right up against the side of her neck.

“Are we going to hook up on this catwalk?” Adora finds herself saying. With her hand against Catra’s bare chest, her breath coming hot and fast, she isn’t ashamed to be asking.

Catra chuckles, and the vibrations along her skin make Adora shiver. “You want to?” Catra’s voice is rough, and the question ends with a pleading note that sends heat pooling low in Adora’s body.

For some reason, chivalry rears its head when all Adora wants to do is get on her knees and give Catra her answer. “We could go back to your place?” she asks, and in opposition to the offer, reaches down to fiddle with the button of Catra’s jacket.

Catra pulls back, and her mouth is suddenly _way_ too far away. “Sure,” Catra says slowly, keeping Adora from chasing her lips. That alone is enough to drive a spike of uncertainty through Adora’s lust-addled brain, but Catra, ever quick on the uptake, seems to catch that. She plants a hard peck on her lips and stays close when she goes on. “It’s… not far.”

She says it almost like a question, and there’s a look on her face Adora can’t quite read. Contemplative, maybe. No— _withholding._

“We don’t have to,” Adora says, trying for placating. “We can stay on this catwalk. It’s… it’s fine, wherever. I mean, we don’t have to at _all_ , if you don’t want to. Please—uh, please don’t feel like we have to, or like… I don’t know, like—”

Catra clamps a hand around her mouth. Their current position informs the action in a way that makes Adora’s head spin. She does her best to listen, although her mind has decided to take up residence in the gutter.

“I want to,” Catra says firmly. “Just…” Her eyes are dark, focused. She’s wrestling something, but settles on: “I’ll show you.”

Catra leads her across the catwalk, not seeming to mind how close Adora stays. There’s already too much distance between them, and the anticipation of what Catra’s about to show her is more than a little disconcerting.

There’s a section of the wall, almost completely pitch-black and obscured from the rest of the theater. Catra disappears into the darkness.

“If you’re planning on murdering me up here—” Adora snaps her mouth shut when a single light illuminates the alcove.

Catra’s standing at the foot of what looks like a foam mattress topper, decorated with a single, deflated pillow and a set of clean but well-worn sheets. She gestures to it. “Romantic, I know.”

“Catra you… do you _live_ up here?”

“Rent-free, I might add.”

“You’re _squatting_ here?”

Catra grimaces. “You know, the word _squatting_ is not really doing it for me.”

“ _Catra_.” Adora is at a loss. She’s incredulous and still miraculously turned on and the two are not a matching set. She blubbers around for a response and comes up short.

The silence is, as they say, deafening. What’s worse, Catra seems to shrink in on herself when Adora can’t come up with anything to say. She looks down at the topper, at the empty-looking duffel bag beside it, and crosses her arms, frowning. “Look, it’s all I’ve got,” she says, curt. “I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want to do.”

Adora crosses the distance between them in two long strides, cups her jaw and kisses her, as full and as deeply as she can. She pours into it every ounce of reassurance, of care, and of _want_ that she has; it’s everything she’s been feeling for weeks.

She can’t stand to see the shame, the embarrassment on Catra’s face. It’s not disgust or reprehension she feels—it’s sadness. This woman, so dedicated and yet so tired, so wonderfully brilliant in all the ways Adora admires— _this_ is what she has to call home. Catra deserves more. Maybe Adora can’t just go out and _buy_ her a place, but she can give her this: they don’t have to talk about it. They don’t have to talk about _any_ of it, if only for tonight.

“I don’t care. I’m sure it’s comfy,” Adora says, pulling away. Catra looks a little dazed, but maintains eye contact. “I want you. If that’s still okay.”

Now it’s Catra who looks like she’s at a loss. It takes her a moment of staring at Adora with something that looks suspiciously like awe, but she answers.

“Yeah”—she swallows thickly, searching Adora’s face—“yeah, it’s still okay.”

~

They don’t even get to Catra’s poor excuse for a bed, and it’s _right_ _there._

She’s felt out of control before, but this? This is so different, and yet… the fire under her skin, the need at her fingertips—it’s all so familiar. She’s ravenous, she’s desperate, but with Adora… she feels safe. It’s just another dangerous thought in a sea full of them, but Catra can’t think about it for too long. She bites at a spot along Adora’s jaw and Adora’s back arches away from the wall. She gasps, and the movement presses their bodies together. It’s still not close enough.

Adora’s hands are busy at the buttons of her blazer, fumbling blindly with her head thrown back against the wall. Catra makes her way down to the exposed skin at her collarbone, and it’s all she can do to not just rip Adora’s jumpsuit off. She just barely manages to control the impulse because there’s too much between them, too much happening. It’s all too much, and Catra is more alive than she’s ever been. It’s a discovery; for the better half of a year she’s just been going through the motions. Now she’s finally invested.

She’s finally _awake._

Adora gets the buttons undone at last, and Catra doesn’t have the brain capacity to help as she shoves it off her shoulders. Catra’s not wearing anything underneath, and she figures that initially, it had all been for the _look_. Now, however, with Adora’s strong hands on her bare skin, she discovers a much more lascivious reason for the fashion choice.

The dim light makes Adora’s eyes sparkle when Catra pulls back far enough to look at her. Adora’s hands spread out over her clavicle, indulgent, and her gaze follows her touch. For a moment, Catra is self-conscious. She’s always been lean and scrappy, never quite feeling as if her body had filled in in the ways others’ might have. But Adora looks down at her body with such bare-faced admiration, so clearly wanting, that Catra completely forgets ever being self-conscious in her life. It’s just… she’s never been _looked at_ like this.

Adora traces her collarbones, before she slowly slides her hands down Catra’s bare sides, and it makes her feel like something rare and precious.

Even with her chest warming from a feeling much gentler than lust, Adora’s obvious attempts at courtesy are keeping her hands away from the places where Catra desperately needs her touch.

She’s so gentle it aches, so full of care and wonder that Catra can’t take it—she grabs Adora’s wrists, and presses her hands to her breasts. Adora meets her eyes sharply, pupils blown-out, and the look is too much, it’s too intense. She kisses Adora with all she has, burying her hands in her loose hair. She tugs, and Adora groans against her lips, begins touching in earnest, and Catra’s brain completely short-circuits. She’d known what she’d needed, but the desire and the result are two very different things.

Adora is as insistent as she is giving. So much so that with the pleasure blooming out from her chest, Catra doesn’t have the wherewithal to protest when Adora flips their positions, effectively pinning Catra against the wall. It’s that moment where Catra realizes (quite belatedly) that Adora, even without the thick-soled shoes of her costume, is larger than her. It’s not something she’s put much thought into outside of her occasional ogling. Adora is so kind and so gentle that while her figure might be intimidating in another context, Catra has never felt any less than comfortable with her.

Adora’s hands are on her bare chest and she’s thinking about how _safe_ she feels?

 _I’ve gone soft_ , she thinks, but then ceases to care about it or any of her other problems as one of Adora’s hands comes up to cup her jaw; the other one traces the skin just above the waistband of her slacks.

Her gaze is so intense, Catra feels like she’s going to burn up if she looks at her any longer. “Okay?” Adora asks, and the dark timbre of her voice is so _hot_. “Catra?”

She must look a damn mess if Adora’s this concerned. She nods. “Peachy,” she says, and registers it vaguely as flippant, but really doesn’t have the presence of mind to do anything but ask for more. “But if you stop again, I’m going to lose my fucking mind.”

Luckily for Catra, Adora’s concern takes a backseat.

The fingers at her waistline are at the button of her slacks, uncoordinated, and Catra can only stay busy enjoying Adora’s lips along her jawline for so long.

From the moment she’d seen Adora in that form-fitting jumpsuit, with her arms and her back on full display, she’s been pent-up, antsy. It’s the culmination of the slow circles they’ve been making around each other, each moment together bringing them closer. Now that she has Adora—her lips, hands, and body—she needs it _all_.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Catra groans, because yes, everything that’s going on is well and good, but Adora’s hand is _still_ not in her pants, and she will do a backflip off the catwalk if that doesn’t change _right now_.

Adora hums, distracted with the attention she’s now giving Catra’s neck, and it gives Catra the opportunity to bat her hand away for just long enough to get the button and zipper undone. Adora pauses, probably ready to say some other really kind, really wonderful thing, but Catra yanks her wrist back, all but shoving it down the front of her pants. It’s too desperate, too eager, but Adora—wonderful, understanding Adora—doesn’t laugh. She gets to work.

It’s _Adora_ that moans when Catra finally gets her fingers exactly where she’s wanted them all this time.

“You feel so good,” Adora sighs, right next to her ear, and this is all going to be over very, _very_ quickly if she keeps _saying shit_.

For several long moments, Catra is near-immobilized, barely able to grind herself over Adora’s circling fingers. It feels like _heaven,_ like no one else she’s ever been with, and Adora is kissing her like she’s drowning, like Catra is the last woman on earth. She’s gripping Adora’s well-muscled shoulders, trying to catch one single breath, but failing at even keeping herself upright.

Adora is an attentive lover, which is a very unfortunate first for Catra, and she seems to pick up on Catra’s sudden lack of balance. “Take your shoes off,” she breathes against Catra’s lips, not stopping the motion of her fingers.

“My— _fuck_ —my _shoes?_ _"_

“I’m going to take your pants off.”

Catra immediately sets to toeing her boots off. The moment she does, Adora shoves her slacks down her legs with her free hand, and Catra helps, and then—and _then._ Adora lifts her up with her other arm like she weighs _nothing_. It is so incomprehensibly _hot_ , Catra almost blacks out. 

Then, hotter _still,_ Adora’s lips are at her ear again. “Hold on.”

“Oh my _god._ ”

Catra doesn’t have to be told twice. She grips Adora’s strong shoulders, her legs wind around her waist and then Adora is inside of her—there’s absolutely no hope for her higher brain functions.

There’s no logical explanation for how Adora manages to do everything right. It takes a few minor adjustments, the addition of another finger, and Catra’s head is thrown back against the wall; she’s gasping for breath, digging her fingers into Adora’s shoulders, begging for more—it’s _shameless_. And Adora delivers. Any breathless request is met immediately, in full force, and Catra is so overwhelmed with it.

There have been others, of course. Women she’s lusted after, ones that have lusted after her. Other lovers with hidden agendas, hateful punks to match her own anger, the occasional pillow princess. She’s been left exhausted after those women, with each one taking a different piece of her. Her time, her energy, her willpower. But not her heart. _Never_ her heart.

Now, however, with Adora’s face buried in the crook of her neck, her own hands tugging at Adora’s hair; with Adora whispering sweet nothings that are (not pushing, not shoving but) _guiding_ her closer and closer to the edge… she wants to give. She wants to give a piece of her heart. Adora isn’t taking anything from her, Catra is _offering._

She’s never offered anyone anything before.

Adora pulls back from her neck, and Catra’s expecting another kiss, but instead, she meets Adora’s eyes. For a long moment, she’s stunned, struggling to keep her own eyes open as Adora’s fingers curl and thrust, faster and faster still. But she can’t look away, and neither, it seems, can Adora.

It happens in an instant, all of the heady pleasure spreading out from the spot Adora has chosen to focus her attention on. She maintains eye contact for the first second, but it becomes so much so _fast_ she’s hit the ceiling and gone through the roof—and higher, higher, _higher_. It registers distantly that she’s making too much noise, throat raw, head thrown back against the wall, writhing against Adora. But the only thing that matters is what Adora is doing to her, how mind-blowing this all feels, and Adora, almost as if in ecstasy herself, sighing Catra’s name.

What feels like an hour passes before she’s blissfully gliding back to herself. She swallows, her mouth dry, eyes still closed, still reveling in the aftershocks. Adora jostles her fingers, and Catra twitches, still sensitive.

“Sorry,” Adora mumbles, and her voice is thick and husky, and the moment Catra has her faculties back she is going to kiss her until neither of them can breathe. Adora begins to draw her fingers back. “You want me to—”

“No,” Catra says, as clear as she can manage. “Stay.”

It’s really, shockingly vulnerable for her. But her brain has phoned it in and if she has to defend herself, she can just say that she needs a minute to recover, that she can’t think at the moment. That, and _not_ that she absolutely loves having Adora this close.

Adora does as she’s asked, and when Catra can finally look at her, the wry little smirk on Adora’s face deserves a rebuttal. “You…” Catra trails off, her head falling against Adora’s shoulder. “…You’re such a jackass.” So much for a rebuttal.

“ _I’m_ a jackass?” Adora laughs. “Why?”

“So good,” Catra grumbles, “never going to be that fucking good again.”

Adora hums, silent for a moment. Catra is too blissed out to be worried in the interim, but Adora does respond after a beat. “I think we can make it happen again,” she says, coy.

Catra snorts into the crook of Adora’s neck. “Give me two minutes.”

“Take your time,” Adora says, and Catra knows she means it.

This is new, too. Adora lets her recover, not rushing her, not pushing her. The care makes Catra’s heart swell. Adora doesn’t need to know that, though. So instead of saying anything, Catra begins pressing lazy kisses to her neck and her shoulders, hoping that maybe, just maybe, Adora will get the message. The one she’s too afraid to say.

“I can’t believe you’re still completely clothed,” Catra murmurs between kisses. Adora retrieves her hand, and Catra regains her shaky footing. “Doesn’t seem fair.”

“I can be not. Clothed, I mean,” Adora says, her breath hitching when Catra leaves a bite. “That’s… for sure.”

Catra hums a chuckle. “For sure.”

She inches the fabric off Adora’s shoulders, letting her lips find each new piece of skin below her collarbones. Her energy is returning, and with it comes the singular focus of giving as good as she’s gotten. It stands to reason that Adora should get a reward. For once in her life, Catra doesn’t feel like she has to repay a debt; she really _really_ just wants to make Adora feel good.

Adora’s breathing speeds up as Catra pulls the jumpsuit over her breasts, taking care to drag the fabric over her nipples as she does. As much as she wants to, she doesn’t dip down to give them more attention. Really, Adora shouldn’t have to wait any longer, but Catra is a creature of habit, and she’ll get a tease in where she can get it.

“ _Catra,_ ” Adora sighs, a twinge of impatience in her voice.

The jumpsuit is low on her hips. Catra takes a long moment to appreciate just how much of Adora is exposed before giving her a smirk. “Yeah?”

She looks about ready to beg. “Are you… are you going to—”

“Fuck you? Yeah.” Catra grins, and it seems that Adora finds the whole thing much less funny. “Just admiring.”

“Can you admire faster, maybe?”

It’s equal parts the desperation in her voice, the way she looks, bathed in dim light, and how badly Catra just _wants_ —she all but slams Adora back against the wall and yanks the jumpsuit down to the floor. She’s got a plan, but as she watches Adora step out of the offending article, now just as naked as Catra is, she can’t help herself. She surges back up, thigh between Adora’s legs, and presses the length of their bodies together.

Adora is a _mess_ against her thigh, and Catra is simultaneously proud of herself and several degrees hotter than she’d been previously. It’s skin against skin, with Adora’s hips rocking hard against her; she moans at her ear, and then—

It doesn’t take more than a couple minutes of this, but then Adora is shivering against her, sighing hard into her neck. Catra can’t believe it, at first, but after the haze has lifted and she realizes that Adora’s hips have stopped, she takes stock of the situation.

“Did you just come?”

Adora is silent.

“Wow, Princess, I turned you on _that_ much?” She’s going for teasing, but the prospect is so _fucking hot_ , she’s not sure how well she’s selling indifference.

Adora groans into her neck. “Don’t call me that.”

“I think you like it,” Catra coos, running her hands up and down Adora’s arms. She shivers at the touch. “I think you like that, too.”

“So what if I do?” She finally pulls back, leaning against the wall.

She looks so good, hair mussed, eyes half lidded; from her face all the way down to her clavicle, she’s a lovely shade of pink from her recent exertion—Catra can’t help but touch. She runs her hands over Adora’s chest, thumbing at her nipples until Adora’s breathing picks up again. It’s obvious that Adora’s forgotten her question. Catra traces her ribs, strokes the firm muscle of her stomach, all the way down to where Catra’s thigh is still pinned between Adora’s legs.

“If you like all _that_ ,” Catra begins, freeing her leg so she can start planting kisses down the length of Adora’s body. When she gets down to her knees, she looks back up to meet Adora’s eyes as she pulls Adora’s left leg over her shoulder. “I bet I can think of something else you’ll be into.”

* * *

She knows Catra has a smart mouth.

What she _hadn’t_ known, until right now, is that Catra’s mouth is also good. At sex.

…She can’t think too well at the present moment.

Receiving has never been something she’s actively indulged in. Most of the time, she’s felt like she’s owed the women she’s been with. Something like, _“Thank you so much for putting up with me!”_ In retrospect, it’s kind of ridiculous. It hadn’t felt like that at the time, though. In college, she’d come across the term “ _stone_ ” and applied it to herself. She didn’t _need_ to be touched. Giving was _always_ more rewarding.

With Catra’s head between her legs, she thinks that just _maybe_ , she’d been a little off the mark. Maybe it’s nice to receive, for once.

And she’s so _enthusiastic_. It’s part of the reason Adora hadn’t lasted long before—it’s this foreign feeling of being wanted. Of being _shown_ that she’s wanted.

God, thinking _that_ is going to end this very quickly. _Again._

She buries her hands in Catra’s hair, and Catra squeezes her thigh in response, picking up her pace. It hadn’t been what Adora had been asking for, but she’s infinitely grateful for it. She’s trying not to be too loud, because the theater is very much open and anyone could walk in and hear Catra _blowing her mind_. It is a miracle that she’s been as quiet as she has because Catra’s tongue has found the exact same pattern and pressure she uses when she touches herself and is sticking to it.

Pleasure clouds her mind to the point that staying upright, even with Catra’s help, is proving more and more difficult. She looks down, managing to keep her eyes open for long enough to catch Catra’s eyes; they’re staring right back up at her, and Catra has the audacity—the _audacity_ —to wiggle her eyebrows and wink _._

Adora can’t help it. She’s been so pent-up all night, all week, the entire time she’s been in Bright Moon, that she starts laughing. It’s a feat, because she’s about three seconds away from either collapsing or coming or, honestly, both. Still laughing between gasps, she notices where Catra’s other hand has ended up, the one that’s not helping keep her upright. It’s between her legs.

That’s all it takes, really.

The laughter gets caught in her throat. She throws her head back, and forgoes her attempts at staying quiet, because it is happening _right now_ and it is so all-consuming, setting every nerve in her body alight, and Catra’s right there, helping her through it, making her feel like this. This—all of this—has been so long in the making, she’s wanted it for weeks, and unlike every woman in her past, _this_ payoff absolutely feels like a reward.

“ _Fuck,_ ” she sighs, loud and unable to help it, and her supporting leg says _no more_ as she slips down the wall.

When she gets to the floor, sitting in a heap on her discarded jumpsuit, Catra’s there. She wipes her mouth with the back of her arm. “Nice of you to join me down here.”

She tries to focus on her face. “’S nice,” she mumbles and closes her eyes. It’s about all she can do.

“Oh, I broke her again,” Catra says, and she can hear the smile in her voice. “You need a minute there, Princess?”

Adora doesn’t have the capacity to protest the nickname like she usually does. She just nods, enjoying the way her body buzzes in the afterglow. A moment passes, and she feels Catra tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. She hums happily, leaning into the touch. It’s gentle at first, the way Catra’s fingers glide along her cheek, her jaw. It’s a touch, however, that begins to wander.

She opens her eyes to Catra’s careful gaze, whose hands are spreading out over Adora’s chest. Catra smiles, and it’s so soft Adora melts into her increasingly insistent touch. She reaches for Catra, drawing her in between her spread legs, almost sideways in her lap, so she can reciprocate. Their hands wander. Catra finds the spot between Adora’s shoulder blades again, and robs her of breath, just as Adora finds a spot along Catra’s jaw that she can tease a moan from with lips and tongue and a little bit of teeth.

It’s not at all like the fever pitch from earlier. This is an exploration of each other’s bodies, and it’s sweet, and it’s tender, and Adora loves it.

Catra’s palms are rough and calloused, like she knows most theater technicians’ hands are, but they map her body with a delicate reverence that belies both her hands and her attitude. She kisses Adora with this same tenderness, cupping her jaw with her right hand while her left travels lower. Adora is so busy getting lost in the slide of their lips, the gentle press of Catra’s tongue against hers, that it’s only when Catra is touching her fully, _properly_ , that she notices how far her hand has wandered.

She gasps against Catra’s lips, feeling them curl into a smile when she does. Without thought, she reaches for Catra so she can reciprocate, but Catra catches her hand.

“This is for you,” Catra murmurs, and it’s the softest thing Adora has ever heard her say.

That, coupled with the fact that Catra’s fingers are just as skilled as her mouth, has Adora seeing stars before she can even think to protest. She wants to touch Catra too, wants to make her feel good again; it feels selfish to be well on her way to a _third_ orgasm, but Catra is determined and focused and Adora has never in her life felt this cared for.

She meets Catra’s eyes, foreheads pressed together as Catra curls and strokes. Adora knows she could ask for anything in this moment, and Catra would do it for her. The way Catra looks at her—she feels deserving of this.

 _Oh, no, you are_ not _allowed to cry,_ she scolds herself. She closes her eyes, shoves the emotion back down into her chest, and tucks her face into the crook of Catra’s neck, because now is _not the time, idiot._ Her arms come around Catra, one hand at her back and the other at her hip, trying desperately to ground herself.

Catra’s free hand comes to the back of her head, fingers in her hair, so soothing and so delicate and not at all helping Adora keep her tears at bay.

As much as she wants to draw it out, Catra’s fingers have found their rhythm. She’s so sensitive from before, so comfortable in Catra’s arms, that when she hits her peak, it’s just as gentle as Catra is treating her. It’s such a raw, bare-faced vulnerability, combined with such overwhelming comfort, that she loses the chokehold she has on her emotions, and sobs her release into Catra’s skin. There’s no way the other woman doesn’t feel the tears, but she keeps holding on, keeps working her through it, and presses a kiss to the top of Adora’s head as she comes back down.

For long moments after, they stay like that, breathing and clutching each other in the dark. Finally, Catra scoots them over to the bed, drapes a protective arm and the well-worn sheet around Adora, and holds her as exhaustion begins to creep in.

Adora, mind muddled and half-asleep, doesn’t know how to process exactly what’s just happened between them.

 _But,_ she thinks, already sinking into sleep, _I’d really like to find out._

~

The first thing she feels when she wakes up is Adora’s weight lifting off her chest.

Panic wells up in her throat, immediate and all-consuming—it’s the certainty of knowing that _now_ is the moment she’ll leave, that last night was a mistake, so she keeps her eyes shut. She can’t watch this happen, she can’t watch Adora go. She’ll just deal with the effects when they come.

...They don’t come.

Instead, Adora’s head is back on her chest, her arm curling tight and warm around Catra’s body.

The panic goes in a _whoosh._ Adora’s face is pressed against her neck, and Catra feels like a fucking idiot for worrying.

“Are you awake?” Adora asks, lips ghosting over the sensitive skin of her neck. It makes Catra shiver, and instantly she feels those lips curl into a smile. “I guess so.”

“Dork,” Catra grumbles, but she can’t be mad.

Adora laughs, and Catra feels that, too. “Bow and Glimmer called me twenty-three times last night.” Adora’s morning-voice is something Catra discovers that she very much enjoys. Adora had been checking her phone, _obviously_.

“You don’t sound too concerned.”

“I’ve got something much better going on,” Adora hums into her neck. “You smell good.”

Twin jolts run to her heart and between her legs. How is it this easy? So easy, in fact, that the next words out of Catra’s mouth are a question she’s never asked anyone. “You want to grab breakfast?”

“It’s noon,” Adora says.

“We’re _breaking_ our _fast_.”

“Good afternoon, Ye Olde Catra.”

“That’s where the word comes from, you fucking _doofus._ ” Catra can’t stop the laugh that wells up in her throat. “You’d think reading Shakespeare would give you a little historical insight, but…”

“Oh,” Adora sits up, looks down at Catra. “Have you been operating under the assumption that I can _read?_ Wow, okay. Let’s clear _that_ up.”

“I cannot believe I slept with someone this”—she shoves the naked, giggling idiot off her—“ _annoying._ ”

Adora looks pleased with herself for a single second more, and then something much softer washes over her features. Catra doesn’t have to ask what she’s thinking, because Catra’s thinking the same thing. The events of last night trickle back into her mind, and she savors every single one.

Adora looks at her like she’s watching the sun rise.

Her throat feels tight. “Breakfast.”

Adora nods. “Breaking our fast.”

When it becomes apparent that Adora’s arms are not fitting in Catra’s shirts (which is the opposite of a problem), Catra slips on some clothes of her own and steals the first whole outfit she sees from the costume shop. It makes Adora look like she’s fallen out of a thrift store bargain bin. Her shirt has a multicolored unicorn on it and her cargo shorts are two sizes too big. In the lobby, she demands the shoelace from one of Catra’s sneakers as punishment for her fate and uses it as a belt. She looks adorable, so Catra makes fun of her instead of arguing.

They walk down to the local diner. Adora stays close the whole time, arm looped around Catra's own and they crack bad jokes and shove each other and laugh and Catra feels like she’s walking on air. She can’t even pretend to be aloof, or malicious, or anything from her usual bag of tricks because every time she goes looking, all she finds is unbridled joy.

If someone else were to order the pancake stack with rainbow sprinkles and a chocolate smiley face, Catra would have called them stupid. When Adora does it, she has to grind her teeth to stop from swooning. If someone else were to pour all four kinds of syrup into their hand to “mix it up”, she would have been disgusted. When Adora licks the concoction out of her palm, Catra laughs at her until she can’t breathe.

She is in so deep and she _doesn’t care._

It’s a nice feeling, for once.

Adora looks up from pouring all four syrups on her pancakes. She studies Catra for a long moment, looking her up and down. “Are you a leftie?”

Catra looks down at what she’s doing. She’s eating her omelette with her left hand. She smirks. “Ambidextrous. What, you couldn’t tell?” She sets down her fork and wiggles all ten of her fingers for emphasis.

That gets the intended rise out of her. Adora sits up straighter, her face flushed. It’s cute—Catra can admit _that_ much to herself after last night.

“I was a little distracted,” Adora mumbles.

“A _little?”_

“What, do you want a review?”

Catra shrugs, mock nonchalant. She _does_ want a review. “Would be nice, sure.”

Adora purses her lips. Her cheeks are still red, and Catra gets the pleasure of watching her undisturbed as she thinks. “Nine out of ten.”

“ _Wow,_ tough crowd.”

“ _What?_ There’s always room for improvement,” she says haughtily.

Catra finds that she very much likes the sound of that. Still, she has a golden opportunity to tease. “I made you come _three_ times and I don’t get a perfect score?” She rolls her wrists and cracks her knuckles while Adora gapes in horror. “Back to the theater.”

“Advertise it to the whole world, why don’t you?” Adora hisses, body folded over the table.

“Oh _please._ ” Catra waves her off. “You know how many people come here after hooking up?” She takes stock of the other people in the diner. It’s strangely empty for a Saturday morning, but she catches a candidate. “See the two guys over there?”

Adora glances off to their side. “I wish I could pull off sparkly red eyeliner,” Adora says.

Catra’s sure she _could_ , but that’s not the point. “He didn’t put it on _this_ morning”—Catra gives a sharp jerk of her head—“check the other guy’s collar.”

Adora does a little dance with her hand over her eye, looking about ten times more conspicuous than she’s obviously trying to be. When she sees the smudge of red glitter on a white, rumpled, untucked dress shirt, she whips her head back to Catra. “Point taken.”

“There’s also the busser and the girl at the bakery counter. I’ve caught them fucking in the bathroom _three times._ ”

“That doesn’t sound like a coincidence.”

“You think I go looking?” Adora shrugs, mouth full of pancakes. Catra can’t help but smile. “Regardless, I think I prefer you to those two.”

“Good to know,” Adora mumbles with a small nod. She swallows a bite of pancake and points at Catra seriously with her fork. “Because I’d have to kill them otherwise.”

Catra’s eyebrow ascends into her hairline. “Princess Broadway? _Jealous?”_

Adora rolls her eyes. “Well I’ve somehow managed to con you into being interested in me, so”—she makes a face—“gotta keep it up as long as I can.”

“You’ve _conned—_ ” Catra lets out a bark of laughter. She shakes her head at Adora, incredulous. “God, you have no idea, Adora.”

Adora looks like she’s about to press that comment, but the waiter returns to fill up their coffees and Adora ends up ordering ice cream “ _because she can_ ”. In the ice cream excitement, Adora seems to forget what she’d wanted to say, which is fantastic for Catra because the remark had been offhand and she has no idea how she would elaborate on it without making Adora run for the hills.

Yes, they _may_ have had sex, and yes it _might_ have been the best Catra’s ever had, and yes _maybe_ she wants to spend every hour of her day with Adora, and yes Adora’s smile _might_ make Catra’s heart go… _aflutter_. All of that does not warrant the feelings Catra has spent the better half of the month cramming into various dark corners of her mind.

Unfortunately for Catra, though, the post-ice cream excitement gives Adora an opportunity to remember something else.

“I wanted to ask…” Adora trails off, swirling her last bit of pancake around in the small sea of assorted syrups.

When she doesn’t continue, Catra waits for her to look up. She raises her eyebrows over the rim of her mug, gesturing for Adora to go on.

“You said we’d talk later.”

It’s a left turn off a sheer cliffside, and one Catra would rather avoid. It would be so easy to do so. Maybe she’s not mad like any other past iteration of herself, but she isn’t exactly comfortable. She could pay for her own meal and leave. She could get Lonnie or Rogelio to help Adora backstage from now on. She could skip town.

She counts down from five in her head, and lets out a slow breath. “I did.” Adora sets her fork down. She looks concerned, but not pitying. Catra reminds herself of what Adora had said in the black box the day before. “What do you want to know?”

“I…” She worries at her bottom lip. It’s cute, in the most Adora way, and it loosens the knot of tension in Catra’s stomach. “I don’t really know. I guess I want to apologize. I thought you’d be mad—”

“No apologies.” It comes out rougher than intended. She corrects her tone. “I would have been mad. I’m not—this sounds really stupid, but I’m not… _like that_ anymore. I think.”

“You _think?”_

“Mm,” Catra hums an affirmative, sipping her coffee. “I used to be…” She has to laugh at herself, or she’ll scream. “I used to be fucking awful.”

“I wouldn’t say _that—_ ”

“You would if you knew me then. You know how Glimmer wants to cut my head off?”

“She—” Adora apparently thinks better of her protest and just nods.

“She has her reasons. I’m not sure what you’ve heard, but…” She looks away. “She and her mother have every reason to hate me.”

“Angella doesn’t hate you.”

Catra’s stomach drops. She looks at Adora sharply. “You obviously don’t have the full story.”

“She _doesn’t,_ ” Adora stresses. “Glimmer… I don’t know about her, but I know Angella doesn’t. Why would she rehire you if she did?”

Catra grips her mug. It’s still too hot to hold, but the pain distracts her from falling back into old habits. She counts down from five in her head again. “What have you heard?”

Adora divulges everything, no further questions needed. She explains her conversation with Angella, how the older woman had recounted the accident. Not with malice, not with rage. She’d said she’d _understood_. Catra’s not sure what all that really means, but knowing that Angella isn’t angry with her makes everything ten times worse.

She sits with this information. She’s not sure she can even _process_ it in public, with Adora. But something begins to knit together. Something she can’t quite place, but—

“Did she say anything about Hordak?”

Adora looks taken aback. “No, not… I mean, she _did_ mention that trying to talk with him wasn’t easy, and I’d imagine she’s _had_ to, but… no.” Adora tilts her head in thought. “What are you thinking?”

Catra shakes her head, swirling her coffee around in her mug. “Nothing.” She knows she doesn’t owe Adora an explanation, and that distant, angry part of her is screaming at her to tell Adora off. _Adora’s not here to hurt you,_ the newer, louder part of her consciousness reminds her. It’s that same part that had held Adora for hours last night, the part that had laid awake to revel in the feeling of being with her. She listens to it, if only for now. “I just have some stuff to think about.”

“I understand,” Adora says, without hesitation. It makes Catra look up. Adora isn’t smiling, but somehow that’s easier to see. “I’m here… if you need anything.” She says it like she wants to offer something, but Catra can admire the restraint it’s taking her not to. Catra doesn’t want a handout. Right now, she just wants to think. Alone, preferably.

She finishes her coffee as Adora’s sundae arrives. It looks like a clown has thrown up, but Adora looks mildly satisfied with her choice. 

“I’ve gotta… do some stuff.” _You’ve got to_ communicate _, idiot. You’re better than this._ She sighs. “I need to be alone for a little.”

Much to her surprise, Adora nods without question. “Of course,” she says. She looks down at her ice cream, bashful. “I kind of… don’t want this anymore. But I feel, like, duty-bound to eat it.”

She may need to be alone, but she can help Adora with this. Catra picks up a spoon. 

After they finish, Adora walks her back to the theater. Catra knows she’s being quiet, what with the absence of her usual quips, but the idea of articulating any of this before she’s really thought about it is not something she wants to dwell on. Adora, ever to her credit, doesn’t push, just babbles on about a musical she’s listening to until they get to the lobby.

“I’m going to head home. Bow and Glimmer keep texting me.”

Catra rolls her eyes. “Have fun with that.”

For a moment, Adora just smiles at her in that soft _Adora_ way. With so much going on in her head, it’s almost too much to see. “Can I kiss you goodbye?”

Catra blinks. “We had sex. And then breakfast. And you’re asking if you can _kiss_ me?”

“Well, I don’t know! I’m not going to assume that I’m allowed to do whatever I want just because we slept together! That’s not how this works!”

Catra yanks her in by the collar of her stupid unicorn shirt and kisses her. She’d been going for aggressive, but Adora easily manipulates it into something much softer, something that presses at the flimsy walls Catra’s been inadvertently building around her heart since their conversation. When they part, Catra stifles the impulse to run because a veritable maelstrom of emotions boils up in her chest—

But Adora is just smiling. She says goodbye, and walks away.

She doesn’t know why, exactly, but Catra locks herself in the tiny bathroom up in the booth, and she cries.

For the first time in her life, it feels like a release.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we are at the ~rating change~
> 
> this was a LOT to write, but i'm glad it's out for you all to see! as always, HUGE thanks to osmrice and golari for being so supportive and trudging through 50k (50K!!!!!!) of this theater garbage so you all can have something legible lmao
> 
> thanks for sticking with me!!

**Author's Note:**

> [i'm on on tumblr too](https://bazaarwords.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [find the ongoing glossary here](https://bazaarwords.tumblr.com/post/622958274072969216/a-very-long-theater-glossary)


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